


Redux

by illwick



Series: Unwind [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom!Sherlock, Consensual Kink, Dominance, Extended Scene, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Painful Sex, Possessive Behavior, Safe Sane and Consensual, Wet & Messy, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock is feeling insecure.John Watson won't allow it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I realised it’s been a while since we’ve had a nice old-fashioned porn marathon, hasn’t it? Let’s rectify that with a filth-fest in 10 parts.
> 
> Brief mention in this chapter of an original character (Moira) who was introduced back in Part 11 (“Absolution"), but it’s not essential to have read that installment - she’s re-established here as well.
> 
> Additional tags to be added as we go... wouldn't want to spoil all the naughty bits, hmm?

“...And that’s why Stamford refuses to eat avocados!” John concludes triumphantly.

Across the table, Moira erupts into uncontrollable laughter, nearly spitting out a mouthful of wine and she and John dissolve into mutual hysterics.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

Christ, this was hateful.

Sherlock was _trying_ to be good. Honestly, he was. Before they’d left for the restaurant, he’d run through his mental List Of Rules for Meeting John’s Friends:

Make eye contact (but not too much).  
Don’t speak unless spoken to.  
If speech is required, be as brief and vague as possible.  
No deductions.

John doesn’t know about the List. Of course he doesn’t. If he did, he’d feel guilty and sad and he’d spend ages reassuring Sherlock that he needn’t change on his behalf, that he was proud to be with him no matter what, and that he should just be himself.

But Sherlock knows better. Because when he’s himself, he makes strangers feel uncomfortable and he says awkward things and dead ends even the most robust conversations. Normally he wouldn’t care about doing any of those things, but when he was doing it to John’s _friends,_ it turns out he cared a great deal. So it was considerably easier to just stick to the List and endure the encounter for whatever interminable length of time it lasted.

So when John had mentioned that Moira was going to be in the city for a week and had asked if they’d like to meet up for dinner, Sherlock had agreed, and begun to mentally prepare himself for the intolerable display of social niceties to which he was about to subject himself.

Moira was John’s ex-girlfriend. Of course, John doesn’t call her that; he insists she was just one of his dear friends from Uni, and they’d reconnected at a class reunion John had attended several months ago in Surrey. 

Of course, John knows he’s not fooling Sherlock for a second. Sherlock had deduced John’s past with Moira the moment he’d seen her in a picture John had sent from the reunion, and if tonight was any indication, their chemistry hadn’t exactly waned over the years.

It’s not that John isn’t being good. John is being very, _very_ Good. Despite the fact that Moira had arrived at the restaurant in a deep plum dress (John’s favourite colour, and damn it, Sherlock was wearing his purple shirt he did _not_ take kindly to appearing redundant) that was cut just a bit too low to be considered entirely incidental, John’s eyes had resolutely remained on her face (and not her cleavage) as they’d exchanged greetings and introductions. As they were being shown to their table, John’s gaze did not wander to her arse, which, even Sherlock had to admit, was honestly rather pleasant to admire (and he was gay, for Christ’s sake, so that was really saying something). And even now, as John and Moira engage in playful banter and flirtatious chiding, John is keeping his hand resting resolutely on Sherlock’s thigh beneath the table, his thumb gently moving back and forth, his affection grounding and affirming.

Moira finally catches her breath. “So. Sherlock. John tells me you’re a scientist as well as a detective?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes.” He remembers to make eye contact, and internally commends himself.

“Working on anything interesting at the moment?”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and looks away. He’s not sure how much of his current laboratory work is appropriate for dinner conversation, and they’re only on the appetizer… if he bollockses this up, he may put Moira off her dinner altogether, and that would make John disappointed.

“I’m… working freelance for a company that’s pioneering a new embalming technique.”

Moira raises her eyebrows. “Embalming, eh?”

Sherlock takes a sip of wine. John takes his hand after he sets his glass down, and their eyes meet. John gives him a reassuring smile and an encouraging little nod-- apparently it’s alright for Sherlock to proceed with more details.

Odd, but he’ll defer to John’s judgement.

“Yes. It’s a way to preserve bodies without refrigeration while still being less expensive than the current embalming process, and negates the need to drain the body of fluids. It would primarily be used for victims of crimes whose bodies need to be preserved for an extended period of time while evidence is harvested and analysed.”

Moira takes another drink of wine and shakes her head. “Christ. Could have used that back in school. Would have avoided the entire body switching debacle.”

Sherlock quirks his eyebrow. “Body switching?”

Moira shoots John a scandalised look. “Oh my God, John, you’ve never told him this story?”

John is laughing already, his eyes bright and nostalgic. “Christ, I’d forgotten about it until just now.”

“FORGOTTEN about it? I’m scarred for life!”

“Well, yes, probably because you were actually _there,_ whereas I only heard about it from you.”

Moira shakes her head, her gorgeous brown locks shining in the dim candlelight (God, Sherlock is starting to really detest her, was it possible she even had better _hair_ than him? Unacceptable). “So back in school, for a while I was considering going into forensic pathology. One of my professors recommended doing a summer at a university abroad that specialised in forensic studies. So I went, and part of one of our classes was a cadaver dissection of a trauma victim--so, different from what you’d normally see in a classroom.”

Sherlock nods, and remembers to make eye contact again. “Sure.”

“So my first week in the programme, my lab partner and I were assigned our cadaver. After our first class, we returned it to the refrigeration unit. But when I closed it… apparently the door didn’t seal all the way.”

Sherlock arches his eyebrows. This was getting rather macabre, indeed. _Interesting._

“So we arrived to do our lab work four days later, and as you can imagine, the body was… well, in a rather compromised state. But both of us were exchange students, and we didn’t want to admit to the professor that we’d fucked it up royally. So we got an idea.”

Sherlock cocks his head. Next to him, John’s shoulders are already shaking with laughter.

“As part of the forensics programme, this university had a body farm. You know, a place where they put corpses out and let them decompose for a bit before studying them.”

Sherlock gives a slow nod. He’s fairly certain he can see where this is going, but… _honestly?!_ This is grim, even by his standards…

“Well, we knew they’d just put out three new bodies that very afternoon. So that night, under the cover of darkness, we took our decomposed body out to the farm and dumped it, and swapped it for a fresh one. And no one ever found out.”

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth a few times. “That’s… Brilliant. Marvelous, really.”

Moira’s eyes glow mischievously. _“I know, right?_ Of course, when I told John about it he was completely horrified, I thought he was going to throw up then and there--”

“It wasn’t so much the story as the context in which you told it, I mean, Jesus, we were _in bed--”_

All traces of good will dissipate instantly, and Sherlock snaps his head to glare at John.

But John and Moira are just tittering helplessly as the waiter strolls up and asks if they’d decided on their entrees.

Sherlock is not hungry.

He orders something anyway (the fish; it’s easiest to fake eating fish, as it’s conducive to pulling into small pieces and stashing under vegetables, giving the appearance of having been consumed), and spends the next hour saltily observing as Moira and John shamelessly flirt their way through the main course and on to dessert.

...Though, if he’s honest with himself, John’s not really flirting. And he supposes Moira’s not, either. They’re just relaxed and comfortable with one another, their conversation flowing effortlessly as they talk about everything from former classmates to work to their kids. John manages to prompt Sherlock into telling a few stories about Rosie, so he doesn’t feel completely left out, but watching the two of them together is _infuriating._

Because as much as Sherlock values his own capabilities, as much as he’s confident he wouldn’t trade his ability to deduce for _anything,_ sometimes it can be a curse.

Like right now, here at this table, he can tell a hell of a lot more about John and Moira’s past than either of them is letting on.

He can tell that their relationship was primarily physical, whereas emotionally, they got on more like friends. He knows by the way John’s eyes remain resolutely fixed on Moira’s face that her breasts were his favourite part of her body. John’s hands were Moira’s favourite part of his. He can tell by the way John smiles at her that she makes him feel young. He can see by the way Moira licks her lips absently while John is talking that she vividly remembers what it’s like to kiss him.

He imagines what they must have been like together. Young and whole and undamaged, their whole lives a blank canvas before them, making the most of their soaring sex drives and uncomplicated companionship.

He imagines what they’d be like together now. He knows John wants to look at her breasts. He imagines John wants to do a lot of other things with her, too.

John must miss women.

Sherlock stares down at his own figure, so male and lanky and strange.

John must miss women a lot.

“...Right, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock snaps back to reality to find John gazing at him intently.

“I was just telling Moira about how much you and Rosie enjoyed the Fibonacci exhibit at the Science Museum.”

“Oh. Um, yes, it was… good.” Great. Now he sounds like an imbecile, too. He frantically scrambles to think of anything worth saying, but nothing comes out.

But John just smiles at him reassuringly and takes his hand again before returning his gaze to Moira. “I’m pretty sure Sherlock is going to turn Rosie into a mad scientist before she even starts primary school. He was teaching her the scientific method using unicorn stickers and glitter yesterday.”

Moira grins, sincere and warm. “Are you available for hire? I’m fairly certain at this point my children are braindead to anything not on an iPad.”

John rolls his eyes. “Don’t get me started on the iPad. We got one a few months back and I can’t figure out how to use the damn thing to save myself, but I swear within two hours Rosie was a complete master…”

Sherlock permits himself to tune out.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually the scraping of chairs against the floor indicates that they’re taking their leave. He rises, and John holds his hand as they exit the restaurant. He doesn’t normally do that. Sherlock’s not sure what to make of it.

They say their farewells on the sidewalk outside. Sherlock shakes Moira’s hand, and they exchange some bland platitudes about how lovely it was to have made one another’s acquaintance. Then John and Moira hug, and Sherlock can’t miss the way John’s eyes close and he inhales a little more deeply than necessary; he loves the smell of her. He misses it. Sherlock wants to crawl into a hole and die.

They’re walking distance from the flat, but Sherlock barely takes in his surroundings on their way back. He vaguely registers that John is still holding his hand.

Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson for the night, so Sherlock is unsurprised when John guides him directly into the bedroom the moment they arrive home, closing the door behind them and then pulling Sherlock in for a passionate kiss.

He’s clearly turned on by the hours-long flirtation with Moira. Sherlock stiffens at the thought.

John pulls back and stares up at him, his eyes fond as he runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “You alright, you?”

“Mmm. Fine.” Sherlock blinks and looks away. He really doesn’t want to talk about this.

“Hey. Look at me.” Reluctantly, Sherlock meets John’s eyes. “I really, really appreciate you coming to dinner tonight. I know social stuff is hard for you, especially with strangers, but I wanted you to have a chance to meet Moira. For better or worse, she’s a big part of the man I became. And I wanted her to meet you, to see how amazing you are.”

Sherlock bites his cheek. “But I was awful.”

John’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about? You were fine. Quiet, but that’s okay. No one’s asking you to be the life of the party. It just means the world to me that you were there.” He sounds so earnest, so _sincere_ that Sherlock can’t help but smile back.

So he lets John take him to bed. And John is wonderful, as always. He sucks Sherlock off while he fingers him open, and after Sherlock comes, he fucks him while Sherlock revels in post-orgasmic bliss. As the heat of John’s climax pulses into him, juxtaposed with the cool weight of John’s dog tags resting on his sternum, Sherlock finally lets himself relax; he can find a way to keep John happy. He _will._ He _must._

It’s around 2 o’clock in the morning (John’s been asleep for ages, so Sherlock was taking advantage of the opportunity to get some uninterrupted brainstorming in) when he comes up with an idea. A perfect, fantastic, marvelous idea.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

The next night, after John’s put Rosie down for bed, Sherlock welcomes him back to the kitchen with a fresh mug of tea. John takes it, a slightly skeptical expression in his face. “What’s this?”

“I wanted… I wanted to negotiate something with you.”

John purses his lips, clearly confused. “Something… sexual?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! Um, okay.” John looks pleasantly surprised; they haven’t been having many negotiations lately as they were still taking baby steps back into having power exchanges, so the fact that Sherlock was proposing a negotiation out of the blue seemed to have caught him a bit off-guard, but he takes it in stride. “Sitting room?”

Sherlock gives an eager nod, and they retire to their respective chairs.

“So.” John takes a sip of tea.

“So. I was thinking. It’s your birthday next week.”

John raises his eyebrows. “You remembered?”

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of _course_ he remembered John’s birthday, the date is stored in the most frequented filing cabinet in the Home Office of the John Watson Wing of his Mind Palace, but he decides not to elaborate. “I did. And I was thinking…. You were so generous giving me what I wanted for my birthday, and I’d like to do the same for you.”

A slightly apprehensive look crosses John’s face; months ago, Sherlock had convinced John to engage in a particularly extended and rough session as a birthday treat, and clearly he’s concerned that Sherlock is about to propose something as extreme.

Sherlock scrambles to overcorrect. “I just mean… I thought it might be nice for you to have a bit of a treat. Something, um, different.”

John licks his lips. “...Okay? What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I was thinking that maybe you’d like to watch straight porn while you fuck me.”

John had unfortunately just brought his mug to his lips, and he sputters and coughs before blinking rapidly in Sherlock’s direction. “I… what?”

“You could take me from behind and imagine I’m whoever you want me to be. Or I could wear my panties and bustier and heels and pad my chest, if you’d like, and wear a wig. Or I could--”

John holds up his hand, an unreadable expression on his face. “Sherlock, stop. Where… where the hell is this coming from?”

Sherlock stares blankly back at him. “I just thought you might like a change of pace.”

John shakes his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. “A change of pace?”

“Well, yes. I mean, you’re a straight man in a relationship with another man. You must miss being with women, so I thought--”

“Sherlock, we’ve been over this. Yes, outside of you, I’m exclusively attracted to women, but that’s _outside of you._ I’m wildly attracted to you, and I don’t regret not being with anyone else.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “But last night, with Moira--”

“I’m objectively attracted to Moira, Sherlock, the same way I’m objectively attracted to a lot of women. Yes, sometimes I fantasise about women on the off-chance I’m not thinking about you, and yes, when I watch porn, it happens to be straight. But I don’t wish you were female, I don’t fantasise about you being female, and I never want to pretend that you’re female. I love you. I love your body. That’s all I want. Ever. Do you understand?”

Sherlock stares into his mug. What John is saying is so kind, so affirming, was it possible that it was true? 

One glance at John’s face reveals that it is.

Sherlock feels suddenly very foolish.

“Oh. Oh, um. Alright. Never. Never mind, then.”

Across from him, John’s lip quirks up into a lopsided grin. “You know, it means a lot to me that you’d… that you’d offer to do that for me. I know you’re not much for costumes and role-play.”

“Please, John, you know it’s entirely dependent on the situation. In fact, I’ve just remembered that I believe I have a long-standing request in for a particular Victorian-themed session based on the acclaimed film _Wilde--”_

“Oh, shut up, you.” And with that, John’s deposited his tea on the end table and he’s straddling Sherlock and kissing him and kissing him and from there things very rapidly devolve into a pair of _very_ satisfying blow jobs, and as Sherlock watches John’s perfect lips work over the flesh of his throbbing cock, he can’t for the life of him remember why he’d ever questioned this in the first place.

Three nights later, they’re lying in bed and Sherlock is just on the cusp of sleep when John speaks out into the darkness.

“So I’ve been thinking.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock’s brain shakes off the veil of unconsciousness that had been settling over him; he’d had a long and frustrating day at the lab, and was looking forward to resetting his hard drive.

“About my birthday. I was wondering… would you still be open to having a session that day?”

Sherlock rolls onto his side and snuffles absently as he nuzzles into the pillow. “That day? Don’t you have work?”

“I do, but don’t you have the day off?”

Sherlock blearily pulls up his calendar from the front desk of his Mind Palace (a relatively new addition; for a majority of his life he couldn’t be arsed to know what day of the week it was, but with his laboratory schedule constantly in flux, it had become rather imperative as of late). “I...do. But I’ll have Rosie--”

“I’ll make other arrangements.”

“...Oh.” Sherlock blinks his eyes open in an attempt to read John’s expression, but it proves impossible in the dim light of the bedroom. Was it possible John was really proposing an extended session? They hadn’t had one in ages, not since before they’d put the brakes on their power exchanges and started counseling. Sherlock wants to jump at the chance, but he’s still not sure what exactly is on offer here. “Yes, that would… be fine. What… what exactly do you have in mind?”

John clears his throat and shifts beneath the duvet. When he responds, his tone is nonchalant. “Oh, just something I’ve been fantasising about for a while. Nothing too extreme. We’d only need to pre-negotiate a few points in advance. I’d just… like your undivided attention for the day, if you’d be amenable.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, that would be fine.”

John makes a contented little humming sound that makes Sherlock’s heart feel weirdly fluttery. “Good. Looking forward to it.”

“...John?”

“Hmm?”

“Mrs. Hudson was going to teach me how to make a Victoria Sponge that day. Should I… still do that?” That was John’s favourite cake, and Sherlock had, up until that point, succeeded in manipulating Mrs. Hudson into baking it on Sherlock’s behalf whenever he and John had a row, and Sherlock wanted to apologise. Sherlock had thought the arrangement worked quite well, but after the last time, Mrs. Hudson had put her foot down and insisted that if Sherlock needed apology cakes, he ought to be baking them himself. Sherlock had reluctantly acquiesced.

John chuckles and pulls Sherlock into his arms, somehow managing to accurately aim a kiss to his forehead despite the dark. “That’s really thoughtful of you, love. But I’m afraid you’re going to be rather… indisposed. The cake will have to wait.”

Sherlock swallows hard. “...Oh.”

And with that, John infuriatingly drifts contentedly off to sleep, leaving Sherlock alone to bask in the thousand salacious fantasies now parading through his mind. 

He can hardly wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, the next two days are completely insane; Lestrade calls Sherlock in to consult on a case (nothing too intense, just an art forgery fiasco that winds up being more _entertaining_ than _exhilarating,_ but he still has to diligently manage his time to find a balance between casework and his consulting job at the lab), Rosie gets yet another ear infection, and Harry pops by unexpectedly one evening, sending John into a bit of a tailspin. It’s a less than ideal scenario, but in a way, Sherlock is almost grateful; it gives him precious little time to obsess over what exactly John might be planning for his birthday session.

At 10:26 the night before his birthday, John finally flops onto the couch next to Sherlock and rubs his eyes exhaustedly.

“So. I know it’s been a wild few days. Do you… do you still want to _unwind_ tomorrow? We could always do it some other--”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

John gives Sherlock a satisfied smirk. “Is that so?”

Sherlock lowers his voice, to attain the rumbling baritone he knows John adores. “Indeed. I’m _very_ eager to see what you have planned for me.”

Their eyes lock, and the room feels suddenly very warm.

John clears his throat and shifts awkwardly, adjusting his jeans as casually as he can. “Right. So. Everything I have planned is pretty much within our wheelhouse already, but I was wondering… would you trust me to take your mobile?”

Sherlock cocks his head. “You want to… take my mobile?” That’s not exactly a kink he’d thought they’d be exploring…

“What I mean is… I’d like to leave it in another room of the flat so you can’t check it during the day. We’d have a system in case of emergency; I’d call you and let it ring once then hang up, wait one minute, and call back again-- that way you’d know to pick up. But otherwise, you’d be without it.”

Sherlock is entirely flummoxed. In all their years together, he’s never known John to have any proclivities pertaining to technology one way or the other, so the preoccupation with Sherlock’s phone was perplexing indeed.

He purses his lips and mulls it over. “I… I suppose that would be alright. If a case came up, Lestrade would probably reach out to you if he couldn’t get ahold of me, then you would let me know… right?”

“I suppose, if you’d be up for taking a case when we’re mid-session.” 

Sherlock hadn’t thought of that; the prospect is unappealing. “I suppose I’d prefer you screen the case first before you contact me. It would need to be an Eight or higher.”

John grins. “Fair enough. It means a lot to me that you’d trust me with that, you know.”

“ _Hrmph._ Extenuating circumstances.”

“Well, I appreciate it nonetheless.” John takes a steadying breath before soldiering on. “The other thing I wanted to clarify is this: I know you sometimes enjoy it when I leave you alone in between rounds when we’re unwinding.”

Sherlock nods; they’d discussed his proclivity for that activity in depth.

“I was wondering whether you think you’d be comfortable if I left the flat during that time?”

Sherlock pauses to consider it. After a moment, he reaches his conclusion. “Yes, I think so. I’m usually… pretty well under, so I don’t exactly register your proximity when you’re gone, just that you’re… ignoring me. Which I like.”

John nods solemnly. “Alright. That’s good. So if it’s alright with you, I’m going to leave the flat a few times during this session. You won’t be bound or restrained in any way. We’ll set up a protocol in case you need to reach me. Fair?”

“Fair.”

“So, um, I think that’s it in terms of negotiations. All our previous hard limits are still in place: no gunplay, no bondage, no edgeplay.” Sherlock gives a reluctant nod; those were new limits they’d set during this tentative foray back into power exchanges. They used to engage in all of them (and more) as a matter of routine, but since they’d reeled things in and started counseling, John had been very tentative about reintroducing more extreme activities. Sherlock attempts to shake off the pang of disappointment that twists deep in his stomach. 

John clears his throat. “And of course, no hitting or pain play of any kind.” That had always been a hard limit for them both, so no surprises there. Sherlock nods again. “Any other limits for you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. That all seems fine.”

John grins. “Good. So, um, if you’d be amenable, I’d… like to start now.”

Sherlock’s head whips in John’s direction; he hadn’t expected they’d start _tonight._ Suddenly, his heart rate seems to have doubled, and he’s feeling rather flushed.

“Oh! Um, yes. Yes, that’s… fine. But… Rosie?”

“She’s asleep, and if she’s up during the night, I’ll take care of her. Molly’s picking her up tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock swallows. “Oh. Then… yes, yes, I’m… ready when you are.”

John grins. 

Sherlock feels like his hard drive might combust. This was so thrillingly unexpected, he’s all of a sudden consumed with the desire to do _whatever the hell comes out of John Watson’s mouth._

“Alright, then, love. Unlock your phone, and give it to me. I’m just going to set an alarm; I won’t go through any of your private things.”

Sherlock doesn’t have anything on his phone that he feels would be worth hiding from John, but he feels rather warm and tingly inside knowing John respects his privacy. He unlocks his phone and hands it over.

John taps deliberately at the screen as he begins to speak. “So here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to go to bed soon, so you’ll be nice and rested. When this alarm goes off, I want you to get up and shower. Get yourself nice and clean for me. Go ahead and prep yourself; don’t use lube, but just open yourself up for me a bit. Then come back to bed. Understood?”

Sherlock nods so quickly he’s fairly certain he looks like one of those preposterous bobbleheads on a dashboard. “Yes, John.” He honestly has _no idea_ where the hell this is going, and the mystery of it all is so exhilarating, he can scarcely breathe.

John smiles at him. “Good. Why don’t you be good and get ready for bed, sweetheart? Put your pajamas on and brush your teeth. I’ll join you in a bit.”

And oh _God,_ John’s already calling him _sweetheart--_ it takes all of his resolve not to go to his knees then and there. 

But he doesn’t. He rises calmly (well, as calmly as he can considering that he’s trembling from head to toe in anticipation) and gives him a resolute nod. “Yes, John.” And with that, he marches down the hall and proceeds to prepare himself for bed.

He’s just brushing his teeth when John joins him in the bathroom, giving him a thousand-watt smile as he wraps his arms around him and plants a kiss in the crook of the neck, their eyes meeting in the bathroom mirror. “You look gorgeous tonight, love.”

Sherlock tries to mutter out a _Thank you,_ but it’s rather muffled by the toothpaste in his mouth. John just chuckles and kisses his neck again, then steps away to pick up his own toothbrush.

They complete the rest of their bedtime routine in companionable silence.

They climb into bed, and John flicks out the light, then pulls Sherlock close to his chest. “Alright, sweetheart. Sleep, now. I need you nice and rested for tomorrow.”

“Yes, John.”

It’s strange, it’s so strange; in the past, any time he and John had planned a session in advance, Sherlock would be so wired leading up to the event that he had a hard time focusing on anything, let alone relaxing enough to fall asleep. But something about being under John’s command the night before a session in a non-sexual way is new and bizarrely intoxicating, and he feels almost as if he’s been subjected so some sort of magic spell; his mind feels hazy and sluggish, and before he knows it, he’s drifting off into a deep and comforting sleep.

He’s jarred back into consciousness by the jangling of his phone. It’s the alarm, but he doesn’t remember setting one. It’s still pitch-black outside, it’s far too early to be up, he’s certain he doesn’t have work at the lab today--

_Oh._

He remembers.

He sits bolt upright and flicks off the alarm. The screen on his mobile reads 5:10. Odd, that’s an odd time to wake up, but what did he know? He was playing by John’s rules now. It wasn’t his place to question it.

He discards the phone on the nightstand and diligently makes his way to the bathroom, where he flicks on the taps for the shower and shivers in the frigid morning air as he strips out of his pajamas, his bare feet recoiling against the ice-cold tiles. After a seeming eternity, the water heats up, and he steps under the steamy spray.

He doesn’t bother washing his hair; it would just get unforgivably frizzy if he neglected it post-shower, so instead concentrates on washing down his body before turning to lean his forearm against the wall, reaching behind himself with his free hand to part his own cheeks.

He’s not turned on, not exactly, not quite yet, but John’s instructions last night had been clear, and as his fingertips come into contact with his furled hole, he shudders and sucks in a muffled gasp through his clenched teeth. A thousand wild, wonderful fantasies begin to swirl to the surface of his brain, vying for his undivided attention, salacious images of what John might have in store for him today… He closes his eyes, and presses a finger inside himself.

He moans. He can’t help it. It feels good, so _good,_ and he bites his lower lip before thrusting his finger in and out a few times, allowing his passage to accommodate slowly to the stretch. Between his legs, his cock begins to rise, and he spreads his legs ever so slightly further as he works himself over.

Before long, he feels completely relaxed and rather dazed with arousal. Reluctantly, he withdraws his index finger and then re-positions it at his entrance with his middle finger beside it, then presses in with both. The stretch is mild but consuming, and he moans again, louder this time. Despite the lack of lube, the water from the shower is doing its bit to ease the process, and before too long, he’s scissoring his fingers as he works them in and out of himself at a steady pace, diligently avoiding his prostate lest he push himself too close to the edge without John’s permission.

John’s permission.

_John. John. John._

His essence seems to consume Sherlock wholly, his face the only image painted on the back of Sherlock’s closed eyelids, his body the only touch that Sherlock craves, his voice the only sound Sherlock wants to hear. He is preparing himself to be John’s, John’s, _John’s…_

With a garbled shout, he pushes a third finger into his dilating hole and pistons them in and out. Over and over, the only thought looping endlessly through his mind is that he must prepare himself to please _John--_

He sinks his teeth into the back of his own forearm as the urge to come rises up in him so unexpectedly that he nearly loses control. The quick flash of pain pulls him back from the brink, and he has just enough time to withdraw his fingers to prevent himself from toppling over the edge. His eyes fly open, and for a moment, he simply stands, bewildered, staring at the shower wall, shaking with the intensity of it all.

Jesus.

How the hell was he this far under, and they’d only just begun? It’s sorcery, the lot of it…

He turns and flicks off the taps before hastily drying himself off. He wipes some of the condensation off the mirror and gives himself a quick inspection.

His cheeks are flushed with arousal and the heat of the shower, and he notes with a sense of objective surprise that his pupils are so dilated, his eyes look nearly black. John’s dog tags gleam brazenly where they lay against the pale skin of his sternum. He looks wanton and desperate, even to himself.

Perfect.

_Perfect._

He flings open the door of the bathroom as he switches off the light and strides into the bedroom, oblivious now to the chill in the air. The bedroom is still dark, John’s form an obscure lump in the centre of the bed. Sherlock blinks as his eyes adjust; he’s not quite sure what’s supposed to happen, so he simply follows John’s instructions and climbs back into bed beside him.

To his delight, John makes a contented humming sound and reaches out to pull Sherlock close. Sherlock goes willingly, the act of being enveloped in John’s muscular arms all the more intoxicating in his current state. Despite himself, he squirms to wriggle closer, pressing his nude form against John’s body.

John gives an amused chuckle. “Morning, sweetheart.” His voice is low and gravelly with sleep.

“Hi, John.”

“You going to be good for me today?”

“Of course. It’s your birthday.”

John laughs again. “That it is.” He reaches out to cup Sherlock’s cheek, and turns his face up to press a soft kiss against his lips. “You ready to give me my present?”

“Oh, God, yes…” Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and a shiver wracks his entire body; he has _no idea_ what John has planned, but God, in this moment he could tell Sherlock to cut open his chest and hand him his heart, and Sherlock would willingly go get the scalpel without a second thought. It’s madness, the lot of it, the things John can do to him-- his brain swims and floats, and despite himself, he moans and presses his throbbing erection against John’s thigh.

John gasps. Sherlock hadn’t even been aware he was turned on, but suddenly, it’s the only thing he can think about. He moans again, louder and issues a series of frantic thrusts, the firm muscles of John’s quad mesmerizing against Sherlock’s rigid length, despite being trapped beneath John’s hideous flannel pajama bottoms. 

“Hey, easy there, sweetheart, shhh. Don’t get too excited just yet, we have a long day ahead of us.” John diplomatically pulls back, extricating his leg from between Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock issues a pathetic whimper. 

“Hush, now. Roll onto your stomach, yes, just like that.” Sherlock complies, hissing as his cock comes into contact with the bedsheets. It takes all of his willpower not to thrust against them, too.

“Beautiful.” John throws back the duvet and leans over Sherlock to open up the nightstand; Sherlock lets his eyes flutter shut as he listens to the familiar sound of John rummaging for the lube. 

At last, success; the _snick_ of the cap, the slick slide of skin against skin as John coats his cock… Sherlock spreads his legs eagerly, and is delighted when he feels John position himself between him.

The hot head of John’s prick prods between his cheeks and quickly finds its target. John teases Sherlock’s rim gently, not penetrating him quite yet, just testing his boundaries. “Mmm. Did you get yourself nice and ready for me, love?”

“Yes, John. All ready for you.”

“Good, perfect, sweetheart.” Goosebumps ripple down Sherlock’s flesh as John praises him, and John chuckles again. “Now, I’d like you to hold onto the headboard while I fuck you. You’ll need to be very quiet, love, very quiet and good. I’d prefer it if you didn’t come, but if it happens, it’s alright, I won’t be mad. Are you ready?”

“Yes, please, John.” The words sound thick and desperate on Sherlock’s tongue.

“Good. Good, sweetheart, be good…” And with that, John plunges his cock fully inside.

And oh God, oh _God,_ it’s perfect. John’s turgid length feels thick and fiery hot as it impales Sherlock in a single deliberate stroke, and Sherlock throws his head back and gasps, his fingers tightening where they’re gripping the slats of the head board. Under normal circumstances he’d moan or cry out or verbalise to John just exactly how fucking perfect his cock feels inside of him, but Sherlock knows his instructions were clear: _He must keep quiet._

Above him, John issues a contented little hum, then he drops down onto his forearms and proceeds to plant a series of soft kisses up the back of Sherlock’s neck as he gently grinds into him.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” John whispers, before delicately nibbling the shell of Sherlock’s left ear. “Going to make you feel so good today, sweetheart, going to make you feel so good. Claim you, make you mine… you want that? Want me to remind you that you’re mine?”

“Yes, please, John.” Sherlock barely manages to eek out the words, and when he does, his voice sounds unnaturally high. Mortified by his own desperation, he burrows his face into the pillow. He’s blushing so hard his cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Christ, how was it possible that John could reduce him to _this?_

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re so good for me. So good. Hold still now, let me have you.”

Sherlock barely manages a nod, resolutely keeping his face buried in the pillow; he doesn’t trust himself not to moan or cry out otherwise.

With that, John wraps his forearms beneath Sherlock’s chest, holding him tight, and proceeds to fuck him in earnest.

It’s beautiful and achingly intimate; John’s thrusts are shallow at this angle, but he’s pressed commandingly against Sherlock’s back, and his breath is hot and urgent against the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The sensation of skin on skin is overwhelming, the shared heat radiating between them enough to make Sherlock dizzy with desire.

John’s cock feels breathtakingly overwhelming inside of him. Sherlock had prepped himself fairly well, but even three fingers were still considerably smaller than John’s considerable girth, and the stretch burns and blooms as John pummels his channel, incapacitating him entirely. Sherlock spreads his legs as far as he can and John sinks even deeper inside with a satisfied huff, and his thrusts grow faster and even more demanding. 

Sherlock whimpers.

John comes. 

As the first wave of his orgasm pulses into Sherlock’s channel, Sherlock feels John’s teeth sink into the back of his neck, hard. He holds him there, completely immobile, and proceeds to fill him in a series of long, hot spurts. Sherlock only has the wherewithal to gasp and grip the headboard as if his life depends on it.

At long last, John’s thrusts grow sporadic and weak, and Sherlock sighs deeply into the pillow as John’s teeth relinquish their hold on the back of his neck. He knows John has always adored biting at his neck and the back of his shoulders when he fucks Sherlock from behind, but somehow this morning, the act had felt unbelievably feral, and the thought of it makes Sherlock so aroused he feels his cock pulse demandingly against the mattress in response. He wills his erection to behave.

“Mmmm, perfect, perfect, fuck. Hold very, very still, love.” More fumbling; John’s back in the drawer of the nightstand. Sherlock grins into the pillow; he knows damn well what’s going to happen next.

Sure enough, John manages to prop himself up on all fours and slowly pull out, quickly replacing his cock with Sherlock’s plug. “Oh, fuck, very nice. Very nice.” His fingers trace Sherlock’s tender rim, and Sherlock moans wantonly, raising his arse into the air for John’s perusal. It’s still dark in the room, but John seems undeterred.

After a few moments, John collapses onto the bed beside Sherlock, heaving a contented sigh. “Jesus, sweetheart, that was amazing. You were so good for me, weren’t you?”

Sherlock turns his face to the side, and when he speaks, his voice sounds muzzy. “Yes, John.”

“You can let go of the headboard now. Will you turn over for me? Did you come?”

“No, John.” Sherlock turns over, hissing as the plug shifts inside him and his throbbing cock comes into contact with the chilly air.

“Oh, Christ, sweetheart, look at you. So hard for me. I’ll give you a choice now; If you’d like, you can get yourself off now while I watch, but I’m not going to touch you. But if you can be patient, I’ll make you come on my cock while I fuck you. Which would you like?”

“Nnnnngh, _John!”_ Sherlock remembers to keep his voice down, but honestly, how the hell does John expect him to respond? He wants it all, he wants anything, he wants everything, _fuck,_ everything.

John laughs, and Sherlock’s pleased to note he doesn’t sound angry, just amused. “I’m afraid that’s not an answer. Which do you want?”

Sherlock swallows and takes a deep breath. His cock throbs angrily, dripping a stream of precome onto his quivering abdomen. “I want to… I want to come on your cock.”

“Mmm, excellent choice, sweetheart. I’d like that very much, too. But for now, it’s still very early. I’m going to go back to sleep. You can sleep too, if you’d like, or you can wait for me. Whichever you want.”

Sherlock arches and stretches out his legs, feeling the plug press deliciously into him. As much as he wants to come, the idea of waiting here for John to wake up and take him again is undeniably arousing. “Yes, John.”

“Good.” John’s voice sounds warm and fond as he pulls the duvet back up over them. “Come here, love. Let me hold you.”

Sherlock willingly burrows into his arms, and John sighs contentedly.

Sherlock waits, wondering what the rest of the day will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little appetizer...


	3. Chapter 3

John sleeps for another hour and 26 minutes. Sherlock passes the time counting John’s heartbeats, subconsciously synchronising their breathing as he traces light patterns with his fingertips over John’s rib cage and across his pecs. He’s memorised every inch of John’s skin already, of course he has, but he takes the opportunity to reacquaint himself with each freckle and mole and puckered line of scar tissue, gazing worshipfully at the feast laid out before him, sliding softly into focus in the growing morning light. 

He cherishes this man. The overwhelming nature of such sentiment may threaten to drown him under normal circumstances, but not when they’re together like this. When they’re together like this, Sherlock floats.

Sherlock nearly jumps out of his own skin when John’s alarm goes off. The noise is so anachronistic to his current state that he sits bolt upright, heart pounding, with a rather undignified yelp.

John blinks his eyes open and peers up at him quizzically. “You alright?” Sherlock normally didn’t react to alarms one way or the other; if he was going through a sleepless phase, he’d wake up hours before an alarm was necessary, and if was going through a sleep binge, no amount of racket could stir him. Startling awake at the innocent chirruping sound emitting from John’s mobile was rather uncharacteristic indeed.

Sherlock takes a deep breath in an attempt to slow his galloping heart. “I… yes I’m fine, I was just… startled. Wasn’t… wasn’t expecting that.”

John cocks his head, clearly still confused, but then realisation spreads across his face, and he pulls Sherlock down towards him to pepper his face with soft kisses. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I should have realised that would be startling when we were… in the middle of something. Are you okay?”

Sherlock giggles despite himself, John’s lips ticklish as they press against his fluttering eyelids. “Mmm. I am now.”

“Good.” With that, John unceremoniously rolls Sherlock onto his back and slots himself resolutely between Sherlock’s legs. “Now, if you think you’d be amenable, I can think of another type of wake-up call that you might consider preferable?”

Sherlock gasps as the hot skin of John’s turgid cock presses against his own. He moans and arches, spreading his legs wider, and John grins devilishly down at him as he gently begins to frot against him. “Nnnngh, yes _please,_ John.”

“Mmmm, good. Now, let’s see what we’re working with, here…” With a false air of nonchalance, John begins to casually lick and kiss a trail down Sherlock’s heaving chest. He pauses ever so briefly to suckle at Sherlock’s peaked nipples (Sherlock arches helplessly as the skin tightens in response, sending a zing of arousal up his spine) before continuing down his sternum, disappearing beneath the duvet as Sherlock wriggles and squirms.

“Nnngh, John!”

“Shhh, love! Rosie’s still asleep. I need you to be nice and quiet for me.” John’s voice is muffled from beneath the covers, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to roll his eyes without receiving a verbal beratement from John.

All thoughts of backtalk are quickly forgotten as John begins to nibble lightly at Sherlock’s hipbone before licking a wet strip along the crease of his groin. Sherlock huffs and shifts, his cock throbbing in anticipation, but John doesn’t allow himself to be rushed; he simply nuzzles his way past Sherlock’s balls to lap delicately at his sartorius muscle and back up to the other hipbone, which he traces with lazy circles of his tongue. Sherlock grips the sheets as he feels a drop of precome land on his abdomen; John had better get on with things, or Sherlock’s fairly certain he’s going to come completely untouched.

And then there’s hot breath on his shaft, followed by the light press of lips, then the deliciously slick stroke of a tongue. Sherlock trembles and slams his eyes shut, willing himself to keep quiet; he mustn’t ruin this for them both. Luckily, John only teases him with a few more decadent licks before closing his mouth around the crown of Sherlock’s cock and sucking him down in one slide.

Sherlock’s hands fly to the headboard, and he grasps the slats resolutely, willing himself to remain in control. As incredible as John’s mouth feels, John had promised that he’d make Sherlock come on his cock, and Sherlock has every intention of keeping John to his word.

John sucks Sherlock decadently, fondling his balls with one hand and tracing lazy circles around where his rim is stretched wide around the plug with the other. Sherlock spreads his legs as far as he can, willing John to take anything he wants, anything at all-- Sherlock is completely at his mercy.

Just as Sherlock feels the first tremors of orgasm coiling deep inside him, John pulls off his cock with a filthy _pop._ Despite himself, Sherlock whines.

“Mmm, love, I think you’re nice and ready for me.” John pulls back the duvet, revealing a case of bedhead so ludicrous, Sherlock would have mocked him relentlessly were he not quite so incapacitated by lust. “Do you want me to finish you off, or do you want to come on my cock?”

“Gah, on your cock, please, John, GOD…” Sherlock shifts uncomfortably; he’s splayed out obscenely before John, stark naked and exposed, still gripping the headboard for all he’s worth. His skin feels tight and uncomfortable, and his words are laced with desperation.

John grins down at him. “Good answer.” He leans over and plucks the lube from the bedside table and pulls down his pajamas to hastily slick up his own cock, which, Sherlock is pleased to note, is pulsing thick and hard in front of him. Then in one practiced motion, John removes the plug between Sherlock’s cheeks, discarding it haphazardly beside him before lining up his cock and pushing inside.

And God, it is perfect. Sherlock’s passage is already loose and wet from their previous encounter, and John slides home with only the slightest resistance. Their earlier coupling had been relatively gentle, by their standards, and Sherlock barely registers a flicker of discomfort before John is angling himself to stimulate Sherlock’s prostate in that perfect, practiced way that makes Sherlock’s toes curl and his blood feel hot and heady. In no time, John is undulating relentlessly against him, and Sherlock is using every ounce of willpower to make himself last. He grips the headboard so hard it feels his fingers may fuze with the wood, while above him, John issues an amused chuckle.

“Ohhhh, that’s it, sweetheart. Feeling good this morning, hmm?”

“Yes, yes John!” Sherlock does his best to keep his voice down, and the words come out rather breathier than he intended. John just laughs.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it, love. You going to come for me?”

“Nnnngh!” Sherlock shifts and tilts his pelvis up, and John sinks even deeper inside, issuing a surprised, satisfied grunt. “I’m… yes, John, I’m… nnngh, close.”

John leans down and kisses him deeply, and Sherlock melts against his mouth. He feels entirely consumed by the sensation, and he finds he doesn’t have the presence of mind to wonder where John is taking this anymore; he’s just along for the ride.

Finally, John pulls away. “Alright, sweetheart. Tell me what you need.”

Sherlock blinks up at him, momentarily confused. But before he can inquire, he suddenly _understands._

Yes, he and John are _unwinding_ today. Yes, he’s submitting to John, and John is taking control of their encounter, but John is still being cautious, and making sure Sherlock is _with_ him. This is their first extended session since they’d put a stop to having power exchanges altogether, and John is making sure they take one step at a time in this latest foray back into the practice. He’s making sure Sherlock is safe, and cared for, and happy. 

He is making sure this is _good_ for them both.

Sherlock gives him a bleary smile, and John grins back at him, the understanding passing between them, entirely unspoken.

“A little… a little faster, please-- YES, just like that, just… right there, NGH! Yes, right-- right there…” John snaps his hips in sharp, pointed thrusts, and Sherlock can feel his own body respond instantaneously, his balls drawing up tight, preparing for release. “AH! Yes, now just a little… little deeper--” John leans back and grips behind Sherlock’s knees, pressing his legs wide apart, opening him to allow John to sink in deeper still. “AH! YES! Just like that! Just like that! Oh God, John, oh God! Oh God, I’m going to… I’m going to come! Oh God, John, I’m… I’m…” 

He stares desperately into John’s eyes, willing his intentions to be known. He wants John to give him permission, but will John understand?

Sherlock feels ridiculous for having questioned it for a moment. Without a glimmer of hesitation, John stares squarely back at him. “Alright, love. Go ahead. Come for me.”

Sherlock whites out. He knows he’s coming, that much is clear; he can feel the ribbons of hot liquid landing on his abdomen and chest, he can feel his cock twitching and pulsing with each surging emission, he can hear John’s tender words of encouragement talking him through it. But it’s all a thin, delicate tether to reality, as the neurons in his brain are set ablaze and then fizzle to smoldering dust, his transport a mere vehicle for his ecstasy. And then everything fades in to a quiet, serene oblivion.

He comes to with John’s lips against his own, their breath intermingling. He feels a bit clammy and he’s trembling slightly with the utter exertion of his pleasure, and he melts bonelessly back into the mattress.

Eventually, John pulls away.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

“Mmmhmm.” He’s entirely beyond speech.

“Alright. Going to finish inside you now. Shhhh, just hold still. I’ve got you.” And with that, John grips him by the shoulders and delivers a series of rapid, punishing thrusts into Sherlock’s slick channel. Sherlock moans from the overstimulation, but he doesn’t resist; he wants to be good for John.

John holds him resolutely in place and takes his pleasure without hesitation. Sherlock simply gazes beatifically up at him, any pain he’s experiencing overpowered entirely by the vision of John Watson, unbridled, claiming him entirely. 

John’s orgasm seems to take them both by surprise. One moment he’s thrusting contentedly into Sherlock’s languid body, the next he’s rocketing forward, folding Sherlock nearly in half as he leans down and sinks his teeth into the side of Sherlock’s neck before pumping what Sherlock dimly registers is a rather statistically large load of come into Sherlock’s clenching channel. His orgasm lasts nearly twice as long as one of his standard orgasms, and Sherlock gasps and squirms as John holds him firmly locked into place through the duration of it all. By the time John is finishing with an obscenely loud moan, Sherlock feels entirely incapacitated with the animalistic intensity.

And then, there is calm. John is lapping gently at the bite mark on his neck, making contented, soft humming sounds as he cards his fingers softly through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock is breathing, slow, steady intakes of oxygen that gradually reinvigorate his cells, his heart rate slowing, his hard drive flickering back online. He feels limp and sated and so content, he’s mildly concerned he may just melt away into a puddle of post-coital bliss. John is still moving inside of him, a slow, languid grind that makes Sherlock feel simultaneously giddy and greedy all at once. 

Eventually, John grows soft enough that they can’t maintain their union any longer. He reluctantly props himself up and peers down at Sherlock, his face endearingly flushed and hairline damp with sweat. “You feeling good, love?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Going to put your plug back in now, keep you nice and open for me, okay?”

“Yes, please.”

John grins down at him before sitting back, gripping the base of his spent member with a grimace as he withdraws himself from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gasps at the sudden feeling of loss, but John kisses his kneecap reassuringly as he quickly presses the plug back inside.

“There we go. Keep you nice and full of me today, how does that sound?”

Sherlock smiles. “Good, John.”

“Good. Now, are you ready for the next part of the plan?”

Sherlock props himself up on his elbows, suddenly eager; he’d nearly forgotten that John had a whole _day_ of activities planned for them. “Yes, please, John.”

“You’re going to stay here and relax while I get Rosie ready for the day. Molly’s coming to get her in an hour. I want you to stay in bed the entire time. If you need to get up, call for me and I’ll come by to give you permission.”

Sherlock cocks his head appraisingly. That didn’t sound particularly difficult. “Alright?”

“Good. But here’s the thing: you’re not to clean yourself up, yeah? I still want you nice and messy by the time I come to check on you.”

_Oh._

Well that was a rather lovely turn-up, indeed.

Sherlock loved to be left debauched between rounds during their sessions, and it was no secret that John enjoyed seeing Sherlock a bit disheveled after taking him. It would seem John wanted to extend this dynamic for the day, and Sherlock revels in all the potential he foresees.

He gives John his most coquettish smile. “Yes, John.”

“Good.” And with that, John pulls up his pajamas and rises from the bed, taking the duvet with him. He folds it and haphazardly discards it on the chair by the wardrobe before disappearing into the bathroom.

It’s strange.

Something about not having the duvet on the bed makes Sherlock feel unusually _exposed._ He’s splayed out rather inelegantly, his abdomen and chest covered in a thick coat of his own come, and he has nowhere to hide the evidence of his debasement. He shivers at the thought of it. John has left him here, _so exposed._

_God, John._

He doesn’t remember starting to drift, but he knows it happens because he loses track of time entirely. At one point he’s fairly certain he hears a faint murmur of voices from the sitting room, but he can’t be arsed to care about the context of any of it; he simply stretches out his limbs, starfishing luxuriously, delighting in the way the come on his stomach feels tight and cool as it congeals. He arches his back and gasps as the plug shifts inside him. He curls his toes and sighs and nuzzles back into the pillows and drifts and drifts and drifts, waiting for John’s return.


	4. Chapter 4

An indeterminate amount of time later, the bedroom door swings open, and Sherlock lurches upright to attention. He blinks uncomprehendingly at the form of John Watson blundering his way through the doorframe carrying a tray laden with… something that smells a rather lot like toast.

Sherlock cocks his head. “What is that?”

John grins down at him. “Breakfast.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Isn’t it rather customary for the _partner_ of the individual having the birthday bring _them_ breakfast in bed?”

John just chuckles as he settles onto the bed beside Sherlock, balancing the tray on his lap. He’s dressed for work, minus his shoes, and something about his stockinged feet sets off a warm pang of fondness that Sherlock distractedly registers. “Didn’t realise you were so traditional.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I pride myself on being an endless series of contradictions.”

“Well, in that case, you’re a raving success, my dear.” John leans in and presses a rather chaste kiss against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock can’t help but grin back at him. Despite the fact that he’s currently stark naked and coated in his own come, nothing about their current situation feels sexual-- just beautifully, overwhelmingly intimate.

“So I’ve brought you breakfast, love. Do you want to eat it yourself, or would you like me to feed it to you?”

And oh, that’s a lovely thought, that is. In the past, John’s usually reserved _feeding_ for part of their aftercare, something they indulge in once a session has concluded and they’re both muddling their way back to solid ground. But it seems today, he’s in the mood for something a bit different.

Sherlock grins wickedly at him, and their eyes meet. He doesn’t even need to say the words.

John shifts the tray over to the bed beside him, and pulls Sherlock close. Then he picks up a raspberry and lifts it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opens his mouth, and sucks John’s finger deep inside.

They both moan. Sherlock’s barely finished with the raspberry before John is offering up a bite of toast, which Sherlock gratefully accepts, giggling in a most undignified manner when John leans over to playfully nibble his earlobe while Sherlock chews his latest offering. They make their way slowly through the plate: berries, toast, and at the end, a single morsel of dark chocolate, which Sherlock greedily laps from John’s fingers as John hums contentedly, watching him with a hungry look in his eye. By the time the plate is empty, they’re both half hard again, despite the rigors of their two previous encounters.

John deposits the tray on the nightstand before turning to face Sherlock once more. His face is lightly flushed and he seems a little breathless, and Sherlock is rather dizzy with arousal himself. But then John clears his throat and levels his gaze, and Sherlock sits up at attention; clearly John has new instructions to give.

“Alright, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“Very good, John.”

“Good, I’m so glad. Plug not too uncomfortable?”

Sherlock shifts thoughtfully. “No. It feels nice.”

John beams back at him, and Sherlock feels very warm and fuzzy inside. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively light and cavalier. “Good. So by now I’m sure you’ve deduced this much, but just to make sure we’re on the same page: my fantasy is to have you here, in our bed, naked and debauched, all damn day, waiting for me to come back and fuck you. I want to go about my day knowing that you’re lying here, messy and desperate, doing nothing but thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you the moment I get home. I want you at my beck and call, ready to take me whenever I want to have you. How does that sound?”

Sherlock blinks twice. That was… rather less elaborate than he’d been expecting, in all honesty, but one quick glance down at his own fully-hard member is enough to indicate that he finds the entire scenario rather unobjectionable, indeed. “So you… want me to be some sort of depraved sex slave for an entire day?” He says it in his deepest, most provocative baritone, and John’s pupils dilate impossibly further at the sound of it.

John raises his eyebrows. “Problem?” His tone is even and bright.

Sherlock has to bite back the smirk spreading eagerly across his face. “No, not at all. You can have anything. Anything.” God, _anything._

John surges forward and kisses him, deep and commanding and sure, and Sherlock finds himself suddenly trembling in the wake of what John has in store for them. It’s going to be _exquisite._

All too soon, John pulls away, leaving Sherlock panting and breathless. 

“So are you ready for the rules?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock distantly notes his voice sounds unsteady.

“I’m going to leave your phone on the kitchen table. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“You’re not to leave this bed without my permission. The only exception will be if you need to retrieve your phone from the kitchen in order to contact me, or if there’s an emergency. I’ll leave it to your discretion to define what constitutes an emergency. Do you feel capable of that?”

“Yes, John.”

“I’m going to be contacting you at some point during the day. I’ll call your phone, then hang up. That’s your signal to retrieve it from the kitchen. Then I’ll give you my instructions from there. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Lovely. A few more rules: you can come whenever you want to. I won’t be edging you or denying your orgasms in any capacity, so if you feel compelled, you can go ahead and get yourself off. I’d hate to miss it, though, so I’d appreciate it if you’d attempt to exercise some sort of restraint on that front. Alright?”

“Yes, John.”

John smiles. “Good. Any questions?”

Sherlock purses his lips, then finally asks the only pressing question he can muster. “The, um… the loo?”

John looks momentarily taken aback. “Oh! Of course, of course you can use the loo whenever you need to. Sorry, didn’t occur to me that would be… shit. Sorry. You can go whenever you need to.” He’s blushing and looking a bit flustered, in a rather endearing sort of way--he always gets embarrassed when he’s in Dom mode and leaves out a crucial part of his instructions. The occurrence is exceedingly rare (usually John’s instructions are detailed to a fault), but Sherlock feels the need to reassure him.

He reaches forward and takes John’s hand in his own. “It’s alright, John. I just wanted to be sure.” 

John leans forward and kisses him, his tongue pressing forward to lap into Sherlock’s eager mouth, and Sherlock can’t hold back the whimper that escapes from his lips. He breaks away, panting, his cock twitching traitorously between his legs. John follows his eyeline and raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, I see you like the sound of this plan?”

“Yes, John. Very much.”

“Glad to hear it.” With that, John rises from the bed and collects the tray from the nightstand before turning to leave the room. Sherlock can’t suppress his own disappointed huff.

John turns to glare at him. “Is there a problem, _sweetheart?”_

Sherlock squirms uncomfortably beneath John’s appraising gaze. “I just… will you be taking me again before you leave?” He leans back onto his elbows and spreads his legs as enticingly as possible, tipping his pelvis back so that John can see where the plug is holding him open.

John appears unmoved. “No. I’ve had enough this morning. You’ll have to wait until later.”

And with that, he retreats to the kitchen, leaving a rather gobsmacked Sherlock in his wake.

God, he both loves and loathes it in equal measure when John is like this: aloof and unresponsive to Sherlock’s shameless pandering. It makes him feel desperate and needy and pathetic, but it also makes him so goddamn hard he can’t see straight. It’s a confusing, intoxicating combination of sensations, and he allows them to wash over him as he settles back against the pillows, legs splayed, cock still resolutely erect as he gradually comes to terms the reality of his current predicament.

An indeterminate length of time later, John pops back into the room to deposit a glass of water on the nightstand. “Alright, love. Doing okay?”

Sherlock scowls and gestures accusatorially towards his throbbing prick. “What does it look like?”

John raises his eyebrows. “It looks like you’ll need to decide whether you want to take care of that yourself. In the meantime, I’m off to work. Ring me if you need me.” And with that, he presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and disappears down the hall, the closing of the front door the final indication of his departure.

Sherlock groans and flips over onto his stomach, attempting to alleviate some of the pressure against the plug. He feels a momentary pang of remorse as he realises he’s getting the come coating his stomach all over the sheets, but hell: John shouldn’t have left him alone unsupervised if he didn’t want him making a mess of things.

For a while he just languishes, thrusting lazily against the mattress, the friction against his cock just consuming enough to take the edge off without bringing himself closer to orgasm. It feels good, but rather like itching a persistent bug bite-- satisfying at first, but increasingly frustrating as the desire for more permanent relief continues to build. 

Before he knows it, he’s sweating and moaning obscenely, fingers twisted in the sheets as he clenches his arsecheeks around the plug and grinds himself down against the infuriatingly soft surface beneath him. He buries his face against the pillow, sinking his teeth into it, trying with all his might to distract himself from the tightening sensation coiling deep in his gut. He whimpers and ruts harder, his body urging him towards release.

He feels his balls pull up tight to his body, and his thrusts speed up instinctively. God, he was going to come, there was no way he could deny himself now. After all, John _said_ he could if he needed to, it wasn’t as if he was breaking any rules--

John.

He wanted to come for John. He wanted John to be here, to see him like this, to watch him with desire dancing his bright, cerulean eyes as Sherlock fell apart for him. He wanted to hear John’s voice coaxing him through his pleasure, telling him how to stimulate himself, giving him permission to come. He only wanted to come for John.

At the last second, he pulls himself up onto his hands and knees with a desperate cry, moving his cock away from the tantalising friction as quickly as he can. His stomach lurches and he grunts helplessly as the tight, cloying sensation of denied release wells up within him. His eyes slam shut and he focuses resolutely on his breathing, bringing his transport back under his control.

Eventually, the urge to ejaculate passes. He blinks his eyes open and is slightly startled to find that he’s trembling, his skin sweat-slick and unnaturally cool as the heat in his blood recedes. He turns and grabs the glass of water John left on the nightstand (of _course_ John would think to leave him water, of _course_ he would) and gulps half of it down. Then he turns and collapses back onto the pillows, face-up this time, his cock still half-hard and heavy against his thigh.

He glances towards the clock.

The clock is gone.

_Dammit, John._

He always thinks of everything.

It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last the scene is set... and the festivities can properly begin.


	5. Chapter 5

The front door slams, and Sherlock snaps back to attention. He’d been drifting for an indeterminate length of time, eyes blankly mapping the cracks in the ceiling, blood tingling in his veins, his brain clear and serene. He adores this feeling, and it’s something wholly unique to the times he’s _unwinding_ with John. Nothing else -- not lust, not alcohol, not drugs -- has ever made him feel this way before. It’s a sense of peace that is utterly incomparable, and he basks in its reassuring glow.

But now John is back, and his heart feels like it’s beating in his throat. He pulls himself up into a seated position (grunting lightly as the plug shifts demandingly inside him) then maneuvers himself onto his knees before clasping his hands obediently in his lap. Ordinarily he’d kneel on the floor for John, but he’d been _specifically_ instructed to stay in bed, and he’s not about to disobey a direct order. 

John rarely instructs Sherlock to kneel, but Sherlock generally takes it upon himself to do it anyway at the start of a session. He likes how it feels, to be subservient at John’s feet, to gaze up at the man wielding power over him with such loving, practiced precision. It’s how he physically demonstrates to John the surrender of his own autonomy.

John’s footsteps echo down the hallway, and then he’s _there,_ bright and warm and ever so slightly ruffled from his morning interacting with the outside world. The idea that life was carrying on as usual outside the precious sanctuary of this bedroom is so incongruous to Sherlock’s state, his mind can’t quite comprehend it. He simply meets John’s gaze, and smiles.

John breaks into his most dazzling grin. “Hi there, sweetheart. God, you look gorgeous. Are you kneeling just for me?”

“Yes, John.”

“Mmm, thank you, love.” John strides over to stand by the side of the bed and cards his fingers affectionately through Sherlock’s hair as he looks him up and down, taking in his debauched state. Sherlock leans into his caresse, and his cock hardens impossibly further under John’s scrutiny. “Did you have a good morning?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “It was nice, I guess?”

John laughs, a bright, ringing tone that fills Sherlock’s chest with a sense of purposeful calm. “You guess? Are you feeling good?”

“Yes. I’ve been feeling very good. But sometimes a little… too good.” He bats his eyes as coyly as possible.

“Mmm, I see.” John peers down at Sherlock’s erection, running his finger gently along it with a rather doctorly expression of feigned concern. “Did you come while I was away?”

“No, John.”

John’s disposition brightens. “Oh, no? You decided to save it for me?”

“Yes, John.”

“Oh, lovely. That was very thoughtful of you, sweetheart. Well, then, we best get on with things-- I’ve only got an hour for lunch, so we’ll have to be quite quick about this.”

Sherlock bites back an indignant retort-- John was really planning to simply use him and then leave _again?_ But no, no, this wasn’t about him, this was about _John,_ this is about him being _good_ and pleasing _John._

Meanwhile, John’s retreated to the corner where he’s stripping out of his clothes, lying them carefully across the chair by the wardrobe so as to avoid any wrinkles. He’s already hard-- he’d been half hard by the time he walked through the doorway, and Sherlock would bet he’d become aroused before even making it back to the flat. Sherlock watches him with rapt attention as he reveals his nude form, gorgeously compact and enviably muscular. Why John insisted upon hiding his figure beneath the dowdiest clothing he could find never failed to fill Sherlock with a distinct sensation of remorse, and his cock twitches eagerly as John sheds the last of his clothing and turns to face him.

“Mmm, alright, gorgeous. All morning at the surgery I was thinking about you, lying here, waiting for me, all wet and open.” He approaches the bed with a veritable _prowl,_ and Sherlock begins to tremble on instinct. He has no idea what John has planned, but this version of John-- _hungry, aggressive, calculating, dominant--_ makes him want to prostrate himself at John’s feet.

John leans down and kisses him, deep and dirty with plenty of tongue, and Sherlock moans helplessly into his mouth. John just chuckles and pulls away.

“Budge over, now. I want you to ride me until you come. No touching yourself, understood?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock breathlessly shifts over to make room for John, who lies down beside him, a smug look on his face.

Wasting no time, Sherlock throws a leg over to straddle him. John grins and reaches up to part Sherlock’s cheeks, and his fingers meander to Sherlock’s crack before pushing resolutely on the plug. Sherlock keens.

“Oh, nice and open for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John.”

“Ready for another load?”

“Yes, _please-- nnngh, John!”_ John has gripped the base of the plug and twisted it, lighting up the nerve endings and causing Sherlock’s cock to drool precome onto John’s abdomen.

“Alright, sweetheart. Deep breath,” --Sherlock inhales-- “ _there_ we go.” In a single, practiced motion, John removes the plug and tosses it aside. Sherlock moans, the feeling of gaping wetness rather unsettling, but John quickly aligns his prick and presses it against Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock moans and lowers himself down in one slick slide.

“Oh, FUCK!” John throws his head back and arches up into Sherlock, penetrating him fully. Sherlock hisses at the stretch, but John’s hands grip his waist commandingly, holding him in place as John seats himself inside him. 

Sherlock wriggles and moans, delighting in the sensation of being penetrated. Beneath him, John’s blinking his eyes open and grinning up at him with a look of pure adoration on his face. Sherlock smiles despite himself, and for a moment, they’re simply still, reveling in the ecstasy of being joined. It feels beautifully sacred.

All too soon, John seems to remember himself. “Alright, love. Go ahead and ride me, now. I want to see you come on my cock, yeah?”

“Yes, John.”

“You can touch your nipples, if you’d like, just not your cock. I’m going to sit back and enjoy the show.”

“Yes, John.”

And with that, John puts his hands casually behind his head and settles back into the pillows, blinking expectantly up at Sherlock.

Sherlock gets down to business.

He pulls no punches. He rides John with the kind of voracious enthusiasm that is usually reserved for when they’re up against the clock (like when Rosie’s still asleep but they know she’ll wake at any moment, or if they’re expecting company but somehow let themselves get worked up enough that they both mutually agree they’ll probably combust unless they get off immediately), and John lets out a shout of surprise in response. 

Sherlock brings his hands to his chest and begins to pinch and twist his own nipples, a sensation which never fails to send sparks directly to his groin. He arches his back as he undulates his pelvis, putting on a bit of a show, and John moans appreciatively, his eyes glassy with lust as he gazes up at the spectacle on top of him. Sherlock’s cock bounces eagerly in front of him, heavy and hard and dripping precome in a pornographic pool onto John’s quivering abs. He yearns to reach down and touch himself -- a tug or two and he’d be there, spilling himself onto John’s chest and stomach, making a mess of the both of them as the pleasure overtook him, but no, _no,_ that wasn’t allowed, he must come from John’s cock or not at all.

Growling in frustration, he shifts his angle ever so slightly, and then he’s there, _right there,_ John’s member striking the tiny nub of nerves buried deep inside him with every oscillation of his desperate body.

“OH! Fuck, JOHN! JOHN!”

“Mmm, is that it, love? You find your spot?”

“AH! Gah, yes! YES!” Sherlock feels wild and desperate, and he digs his fingernails into his nipples and lets out a keening cry.

“Mmm, well done, sweetheart! Go ahead and come whenever you’re ready, just--”

Sherlock can’t even hold out until John’s finished his sentence. Pleasure shoots up his spine, blacking out his Mind Palace as his transport takes control, animalistic shouts erupting from his mouth in time with each pulse of come from his cock. By the time he’s finished releasing, his throat is hoarse and his entire body is shaking with the effort, but it’s still with a deep sense of reluctance that he slows his motions and re-adjust his angle, maneuvering so that John’s turgid member is no longer pressing against the deliciously oversensitive place inside him.

Before he can even begin to process his surroundings, he vaguely registers that he’s been flipped onto his back. He moans, disorientated and spent as he sinks back into the mattress. On top of him, John pummels into his lax body with all of his considerable strength, his eyes wild and teeth bared.

Sherlock closes his eyes, and surrenders.

John’s strokes are rough and deep, and Sherlock can tell by the sounds he’s making that he’s very, very close. Sherlock focuses on spreading his legs as wide as he can, giving John as much access to his body as possible, and John takes full advantage, pinning him down with all his weight as he moves demandingly on top of him. Then John’s teeth are sinking into the base of his neck, and John is coming inside him, the sensation warm and comforting and familiar, claiming Sherlock’s transport completely.

Sherlock arches and groans.

John sinks his teeth in deeper, an unspoken command: he’s holding him still.

Sherlock stills.

John holds him there for a long, long time. He doesn’t move, but he keeps his slowly softening cock resolutely in place, and his teeth remain latched to the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck, which John suckles greedily as he comes down from the high.

At long last, John’s teeth release their grip and he laps gently at the bite mark before pulling away and pressing Sherlock’s sweat-slicked curls back from his forehead.

“You with me, sweetheart?”

Sherlock blearily blinks his eyes open. He feels drunk on the post-coital chemical cocktail coursing through his veins, but he musters a slurred, “Yes, John.”

John smiles down at him, and Sherlock musters a shy smile back. John presses a gentle kiss against his lips.

“Mmm. Good. Hold your legs open for me? Want to check you over before we put your plug back in.”

Sherlock complies thoughtlessly. He’s floating so far away from reality that he barely registers it as John withdraws his spent member and fingers his hole gently before making a pleased little sound and pressing the plug inside once more. 

The next thing he really processes is John returning to the room from the bathroom, wiping at his own stomach and cock with a wet flannel, which he hastily discards in the hamper before turning to retrieve his clothes from the chair. He begins to dress.

Sherlock shifts and moans. He feels filthy, covered in evidence of his own release and full of John’s. 

John shoots him a worried look. “You alright, love?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Just… that was good. That was really fucking good.”

John laughs. “It was, wasn’t it? You’re amazing, you know that? I don’t tell you that enough.”

“Mrph. True. You ought to declare it more often, especially at crime scenes. It’s not awkward enough when you only bother to call me _fantastic_ and _brilliant_ and _incredible_ until even Lestrade’s rolling his eyes.”

“Shut up, you.” John playfully chucks a sock at him (which Sherlock easily bats away), but they’re both still laughing as John finishes bucking his belt and straightening his shirt. “Well, I guess this is about as presentable as I’m going to get. Now, as for you…” He turns to face Sherlock, who shivers with delight at the attention. “You hungry?”

Sherlock takes a quick assessment of his transport. Turns out, he _is_ rather famished; seems he and John were burning through calories at a rather alarming rate today. “Yes, actually.”

John’s eyes light up. “Alright. I brought home sandwiches from Pret, but if you don’t fancy that much food, we do have protein bars in the kitchen.”

“The sandwich sounds fine.” The more he thinks about it, the more ravenous Sherlock realises he is.

John beams at him as though he’s just solved a case, and Sherlock feels very warm and tingly inside. “Excellent, love. I’ll be right back. Going to fill up your water glass, too.”

Minutes later, John’s returned with a tray, which he deposits on the bed and then perches next to it, leaning back against the headboard, his expression undoubtedly pleased. “So.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the tray. “Do you want to feed yourself? Or would you like me to do the honours?”

Sherlock doesn’t even pause to consider. “You, please.” He budges up to lean heavily against him, and John automatically lifts up his arm for Sherlock to curl under. Sherlock lets his head drop to John’s shoulder, and he sighs contentedly. Something about letting John take care of him completely is so strangely soothing, he feels more relaxed than he recalls having been in ages.

John starts with a few grapes before moving on to the sandwich (which proves to be considerably trickier to handle). He had given Sherlock the choice of ham and cheese or chicken salad, but Sherlock found himself bizarrely incapable of stating a preference (he’d been shocked to find himself blinking back tears he felt so overwhelmed with the options), but luckily John had stepped in at just the right moment and announced they’d split both. After a few failed attempts at tearing off individual pieces, John resigns them to simply alternating bites, which works out well enough (Sherlock gets a bit of mustard dripped on his sternum, but John kindly licks it up for him). 

They don’t talk much, simply reveling in the silence and this quiet, intimate act that feels so uniquely _theirs._ Sherlock still finds it arousing, but he absently notes that neither he nor John is _aroused;_ just close and happy and content.

After chewing the final bite of sandwich, Sherlock licks and sucks John’s fingers clean between gentle kisses that John steals from his lips, tongues and breath intermingling in the peaceful solitude of the bedroom. Sherlock loses himself so completely that he actually issues an indignant cry when John finally pulls away and stands up.

“Now, now, sweetheart, I’ve got to get back to work.” His expression is stern, and Sherlock knows there’s no use in arguing.

Indignant, he flops over onto his stomach and stretches out languidly on the mattress, heaving an exasperated sigh; why John would want to do _work_ right now is beyond him entirely. John just chuckles and carries the tray back out to the kitchen.

Moments later, he’s back at Sherlock’s bedside, fondly ruffling Sherlock’s hair. “Alright, love. I have to leave again. But before I go, there’s one more thing that I want.”

Sherlock reluctantly turns his head to peer up at him. “And what’s that?”

John reaches into the drawer of the bedside table, and pulls out the ribbed plug.

Sherlock swallows.

The ribbed plug was a (relatively) new addition to their repertoire; unlike Sherlock’s regular plug (which they used primarily to keep him prepped in between rounds-- it was too small to stimulate his prostate directly or stretch him very much at all), the ribbed plug was large (slightly wider than John’s girth), long (it rubbed his prostate with each and every movement), and most importantly, it _vibrated._ It was beautifully, gloriously, deliriously stimulating, and Sherlock loved and loathed in in equal measure.

“Sherlock? This alright? Will you let me put this in you?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Yes, John.”

“Thank you, love. Up you get, hands and knees, now.” Sherlock complies thoughtlessly, turning to present his arse to John, who reverently traces the place where his rim is currently stretched around the smaller plug. “Beautiful. Hold still, love, there we go…” And with that, John gently removes the old plug and tosses it aside. When he speaks again, he sounds a bit breathless, much to Sherlock’s internal delight.

“Christ, that’s lovely. You’re nice and messy already, I bet you’ll look even more beautiful once you’ve spent some time with this toy in you, hmm?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut. He adores how awestruck John gets regarding the state of his arse; it’s somehow both mortifying and incredibly empowering at once. He rolls his back and arches enticingly. “Yes, John. I’ll be nice and open for you.”

“Oh, fuck yeah…” There’s the distant sound of some fumbling, but Sherlock doesn’t really register it; The next thing he knows, the blunt head of the ribbed plug is pressing against his entrance, cold and slick with lube. He gasps.

“Mmm, easy there, sweetheart. Nice, deep breaths. Hold still, love, don’t fight it, let me in, now…” John’s hand appears on Sherlock’s flank, warm and reassuring, as he gently oscillates the plug in smooth, firm strokes. Sherlock moans loudly, the ribs stimulating his already oversensitive rim as his passage adjusts to the latest intrusion.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, that’s it love, gorgeous, _gorgeous,_ fuck, you’re taking this so well. Just a little bit further now, open up for me…” Sherlock forces himself to relax, leaning into the feeling of John’s strong hand, which is gently stroking his back, soothing him almost as much as John’s words of encouragement.

At long last, he feels the plug slip in the rest of the way, the flared base seated firmly against his rim. He quivers and moans, and John leans down to place a reverent kiss against his coccyx. “There we go, sweetheart. Mmm, fuck, you look so perfect, so goddamn perfect for me.” John’s fingers trail lazily up and down Sherlock’s crack, catching slightly over the base of the plug.

Then John steps away, and Sherlock collapses back onto the mattress face-first with an undignified whine.

“Okay. I’m going to leave you now, sweetheart. You feeling alright? Will you be okay on your own?”

“Yes, John.” The words feel wet and tight in Sherlock’s throat. He’s not feeling needy; he knows he’ll be fine if John leaves, he’s not worried about that-- he’s more concerned with how damn _consuming_ the current pressure in his arsehole is. He’s not quite sure how he’s going to cope with it. 

But this is what John wants from him.

And he is going to make sure he gives it to him.

“Okay. You remember our rules while I’m gone? You can come if you need to. No cleaning yourself up if you do; I want to see you’ve been enjoying yourself when I get back. No leaving the bed without my permission, unless you hear me give the signal to your mobile in the kitchen. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Excellent.” And with that, John leans over and gives him a peck on the cheek that feels unforgivably _businesslike_ before turning and practically waltzing out the door.

Sherlock groans. He feels wholly incapacitated by the plug; he doesn’t even want to _consider_ rolling over in his current state. Instead, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and settles in to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a brief mention of Top!Sherlock. It’s in the past tense (it’s a memory, so the event is not occurring in the present timeline) and doesn’t last more than a paragraph, but if Top!Sherlock/Bottom!John really squicks you out, feel free to skip to the next chapter.

The sound of his mobile ringing in the kitchen snaps Sherlock back to reality. He’d been dazedly staring at his poster of the Periodic Table for an indeterminate amount of time, his brain uncluttered and serene. Normally he’d be taking the opportunity to recite his favourite combustible compounds, or perhaps mentally rearranging the elements by atomic weight, but not today, not right now. Right now he’d just been blinking mindlessly at the poster, uncomprehending, unperturbed, reality sliding in and out of focus like slides on a carousel.

But now his mobile is ringing, and as soon as he’s grasped that fact fully enough to pull himself into a sitting position, it stops, which is infuriating. He’d been having such lovely drift, and someone had the _audacity_ to disturb him and then _hang up,_ it was _completely_ uncalled for, it was…

A sign.

A sign from John.

That he wanted to contact Sherlock.

Sherlock clambers to his feet rather more quickly than he ought to, and lets out a surprised yelp as the large plug shifts inside him. He’d previously been curled into a semi-fetal position on his side, which he’d quickly discovered was the best way to take as much pressure off the plug as possible. But now he’s on his feet, and the ache inside him is _real_ and _persistent_ and he groans under his breath as he staggers towards the kitchen. 

He grabs his mobile just as the screen lights up once more.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: John Watson  
<7 July 15:21> You there, sweetheart?

With trembling hands, Sherlock attempts to gather the wherewithal to type a coherent response.

SH  
<15:21> yes john

JW  
<15:22> Excellent! In bed, or are you still in the kitchen?

SH  
<15:22> kitchen

JW  
<15:23> Go on and get back in bed for me.

SH  
<15:24> in bed

JW  
<15:24> Perfect, thank you, sweetheart. 

Despite himself, Sherlock breaks out in gooseflesh. How was it possible that John’s praise was STILL impacting him this way, even with John nowhere in sight?

JW  
<15:24> Here’s what I’d like you to do now.  
<15:24> I want you to turn your plug’s vibrations on.  
<15:24> And I want you to come as many times as you can before I get home  
<15:25> I’m leaving the surgery now  
<15:25> so you’d best get down to business  
<15:25> I want you to text me each time you come  
<15:26> Is that clear?

Sherlock’s palms are so sweaty he can barely get the touchpad to recognise his strokes; he has to hastily wipe his fingers on the bedsheets before he’s finally able to respond.

SH  
<15:27> yes john

JW  
<15:27> You’d best get to it. The next text I receive from you better be a mission report.

Sherlock tosses the mobile onto the nightstand and collapses back onto the bed, breathing as though he’s just run a marathon. He’s so dizzyingly aroused by John’s demand that for a moment, he’s quite unsure whether he’ll have the wherewithal to follow through.

But he _must._ John wants him to come, so Sherlock will come.

He spreads his legs wide and reaches between them, a gasp escaping his lips as his fingers come into contact with his tender, slick rim. He’s still stretched obscenely around the plug, and he’s beginning to feel the effects of the day’s previous rigors. With a wince, he finds the switch at the base of the plug, and flicks it on.

The sensation is so intense that his torso jackknifes upwards before he can even process what’s happening. He cries out, a desperate, broken sound as the vibrations stimulate his aching channel, and he arches his back, fingers digging into the bedsheets and twisting them as his knuckles go white with the effort. He undulates his pelvis back and forth, seeking any form of respite, but there’s none to be found; the plug mercilessly hammers against his prostate, and there is no escape.

He comes without really expecting it. He’s so overcome by the sensations inside his own body that when his cock begins to emit a thick stream of liquid onto his abdomen, he barely even registers it as an ejaculation. It feels _good,_ in a way, but also terribly consuming and nearly painful in its intensity. His head tips back and he howls helplessly at the ceiling as his body concludes its release, his cock twitching feebly as the last few drops of come trickle down his spent shaft.

He’s shaking and breathless and coated in a flush that quickly turns to a cold sweat. His limbs seem to turn to jelly as he sinks into the mattress, moaning as the relentless stimulation inside his arse shakes him to his very core.

Yet despite all that, he manages to reach blindly towards the nightstand until he locates his mobile.

SH  
<15:31> 1

No dots appear on the screen to indicate that John has any intention of responding, so Sherlock drops the phone onto the bed next to him and rolls onto his side, attempting to alleviate some of the pressure of the plug.

It’s no use. The vibrations are clawing their way through him with relentless ferocity, and it’s with a combination of excitement and dread that he notes his member is already beginning to swell. He knows he has an exceptionally short refractory period when he uses a vibrator, and it seems today will be no exception, despite the fact he’d already come twice before lunch.

Moaning, he brings his hand to his sensitive cock and gives it an appraising stroke. Though he’s already come three times today, they’d all been a result of prostate stimulation-- his shaft hadn’t received any direct stimulation at all. The touch of his own hand sends a rocket of pleasure up his spine, and he swears quietly before gripping his shaft more firmly and beginning to gently jerk himself. Coupled with the vibrations still relentlessly stimulating his arse, the overall effect is… unobjectionable.

He rocks his hips forward and back, alternating thrusts into his tight fist with clenches of his arsecheeks that squeeze the plug delightfully deeper into his passage. It’s overwhelming and amazing all at once, and he buries his face in the pillow, crying out as he chases his pleasure.

His balls feel tight and he’s hot all over and he’s wanking himself as fast as he can, but it’s still not quite enough. Desperate, he heaves himself up onto his hands and knees, spreading his legs wide before returning his hand to his rock-hard cock, lowering his torso and imagining…

Imagining John, watching him.

Imagining John, behind him.

Imagining John, fucking him.

The last image flares bright in his imagination and there, _there--_

He comes with a garbled scream, spilling onto the sheets and his own flying fist, his hole constricting mercilessly around the plug, spurning him on. He wails as the wave of pleasure subsides, ecstasy rapidly giving way to overstimulation. He collapses bonelessly face-first onto the bed.

Then he grabs his mobile.

<15:42> 2

His body feels somehow simultaneously hot and cold. His extremities are clammy, slick with sweat, but deep within his core, the vibrator continues its ministrations on that most intimate part of him, stoking the flames of the embers of arousal still smoldering with residual heat. His mobile slips from his fingers and he writhes against the sheets, now sticky with his own release. His skin feels electrified and paralysingly sensitive, and he grits his teeth against the tidal wave of sensations threatening to overwhelm him. He’s becoming precariously overstimulated, enough so that he nearly starts to feel claustrophobic, but before he can spiral into desperation, he reminds himself: John is on his way. John is coming home. John won’t let him fall too far. John will catch him.

He moans obscenely, all thoughts of modesty long forgotten. Somehow vocalising his discomfort seems to help alleviate it to a degree, and he manages to raise himself back up onto his hands and knees, removing the direct contact of the bed against his cock. He gazes down to where it hangs, thick and heavy, between his trembling thighs. His abdomen and groin are coated in his own come; he looks utterly filthy and debauched. He arches his back and moans again, letting the vibrations overtake him.

He grows hard again. He’s not even trying to, not really, but the mortifying reality of his debasement accompanied with the promise of John’s return proves to be all too much. He brings his hand back to his swollen shaft and gives it a tentative stroke.

He yelps. The stimulation is too direct; he’s too sensitive to jerk himself again. Desperately, he glances around the bed for anything that could provide a degree of relief.

The pillow. Without letting himself pause to think, he grabs it and positions it beneath himself, then lowers his pelvis to thrust against it.

And oh God, oh _God,_ it feels perfect. His body defers to its most primal instinct, to to mount and thrust, which he does without a single ounce of hesitation. The pillow is just firm enough to provide the right amount of his resistance, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine it’s John’s glorious buttocks beneath him, bouncing with the force of his ministrations.

Sherlock conjures up the memory of the last time he topped (the occurrence was still exceedingly rare for them, so it wasn’t too difficult to recall). It had been a couple of weeks ago, when he and John had taken turns rimming each other for what felt like ages, until both of them were practically cross-eyed with lust. By the time John penetrated Sherlock, he was so turned on he barely lasted 30 seconds before releasing inside him with a hoarse shout. Then much to Sherlock’s surprise, he’d pulled out and suggested that Sherlock put on a condom and take him from behind. Sherlock had enthusiastically complied, and it had been wonderful and amazing and not overwhelming at all. John had told him just what to do, and Sherlock felt powerful and confident as he fulfilled John’s every command, using his body to pleasure them both in equal measure. It had been his most successful experience topping to date.

He draws up the replay from his Mind Palace. Like most of his sex memories, the details are a bit hazy (his hard drive doesn’t exactly function at optimum capacity when John is driving him out of his mind with lust), but the highlights are all there: He recalls how John’s back looked, flexing as he gripped the headboard, the muscles in is arms bulging as he braced himself against Sherlock’s demanding thrusts. He remembers how magnificent John’s arse looked, so toned and firm and goddamn _delicious,_ and how obscene his own cock looked, slick with lube as it slid in and out between John’s perfect cheeks. And he remembers how hot and snug John felt inside, his exquisitely tight channel clenching around Sherlock’s turgid member, and how breathtakingly _intimate_ it felt to know he was _inside John Watson,_ and that his perfect, immaculate Conductor Of Light John Watson _wanted_ him there.

“John! John! OH, fuck! Fuck, Jooooohn!” Sherlock wails and with one final, heroic effort, he releases all over the pillow beneath him.

It’s so intense he nearly blacks out. All he knows is that when he comes to, he’s being dragged none-too-delicately to the edge of the bed by his ankles. Then the vibrations stop and the plug is gone and John’s cock is inside him and he’s fucking him brutally face-down on the mattress, gripping him demandingly by the hips, Sherlock’s legs splayed wide as they hang limply off the edge of the bed. Sherlock wriggles a bit, attempting to get his bearings, but John is having none of it; he reaches forward and grips Sherlock firmly by the back of the neck, forcing his face down into the bedsheets as his other hand presses against Sherlock’s lower back, immobilizing him completely. Sherlock goes boneless and surrenders.

John delivers a punishing fuck, pistoning in and out of Sherlock’s abused channel so frantically that Sherlock can’t fully comprehend what he’s being subjected to. He’s fairly sure he’s in a considerable amount of pain, but that doesn’t really seem to matter much at all. Somewhere behind him, John is swearing and grunting and issuing a colourful string of possessive declarations that wash over Sherlock like a warm rain on a hot summer night, calming him as he submits to John completely.

Then John’s wailing through gritted teeth, and Sherlock can feel John’s fingers tangle in his hair. He only has a moment to brace himself before John yanks Sherlock’s head back by the roots, arching his back, causing Sherlock’s passage to clamp down around John’s rock-hard cock like a vice. Sherlock screams in agony, and with that, John comes, rocketing forward to sink his teeth mercilessly into Sherlock’s shoulder, the pain a bright flash amidst the onslaught of sensation.

“Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart, shhhhh, shhhh, you’re so good, shhhh, you’re so good…” 

Sherlock swims back to consciousness to the sensation of John’s lips pressing a series of soft, reassuring kisses up his spine. “Oh, love, that was wonderful, you were perfect, you let me have you just like I wanted, you were so good for me, weren’t you?”

Sherlock nods and hiccups, and it’s with a sense of slight bewilderment that he realises his eyes are nearly brimming over with tears. John’s cock is still inside him, and Sherlock’s hole feels hot with overuse. He’s in pain, but it’s not _real_ pain; simply the glorious sensation of overstimulation he gets when John has taken him roughly like this. It’s good. It’s very, very good.

“God, sweetheart, that was so lovely. I can’t believe you came for me three times before I got home. I walked in just in time to see the very end of that third one… were you thinking about fucking me, love?”

Sherlock swallows wetly “Yes, John.”

“Christ, that’s so hot, sweetheart, you have no idea. Now, I need you to hold very still so I can check you over, alright? We were pretty rough with you just now.”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright. Can you reach back and hold yourself open for me?”

Sherlock reaches back to grab his cheeks and dutifully pull them apart. John hisses as he withdraws his spent member, and Sherlock winces at the gaping feeling of openness. Then John’s fingers are there, prodding ever so delicately at his rim, and Sherlock slams his eyes shut at the cloying invasiveness.

“Goddamn, sweetheart, you look so hot right now, _fuck.”_ John sounds utterly breathless, and something warm ignites deep in Sherlock’s chest at the thought. “Can I touch you inside?”

Sherlock sniffles lightly before responding. “Yes, John.”

“Oh… oh, _nnnngh…”_ John’s fingers slip easily into Sherlock’s hole, and he swirls them about before moving them in and out a few times. “Fuck, _fuck,_ so beautiful… you’re getting so full, aren’t you, love?”

“Yes, John, very full.”

“You like being full of me? You like it when I make you mine like this?”

“Yes, John.”

“God, _God…_ Shit, I need to… need to plug you back up before I get carried away.” There’s some fumbling, then Sherlock gasps as the relentless girth of the large plug replaces John’s fingers in one slick slide. “Okay, love, all done. You can let go now.”

Sherlock releases his cheeks, then John’s warm, strong hands appear, helping him to roll over so that he’s lying supine on the bed. For the first time since this particular encounter started, Sherlock is able to see John’s face. He looks flushed, and he’s practically _glowing._ Sherlock can’t help but grin up at him; he can’t believe he makes John _this_ happy. John is gazing down at him like Sherlock is the centre of his entire universe, and that fills Sherlock with a joy so acute, he all but aches with it. They are perfect together like this-- so damn perfect.

John reaches down and presses the sweat-soaked curls off of Sherlock’s forehead. “How are you doing, love?”

“‘m good, John. Very good.” Sherlock notes his words sound a bit slurred, but John doesn’t seem to mind.

“Good. When was the last time you had some water?”

Sherlock thinks about it. Or at least, he _tries_ to think about it, but when he attempts to recall anything that’s happened since John left, he draws a blank. “I… I don’t know.” He hopes this doesn’t make John disappointed.

But John isn’t disappointed; he takes it in stride. “Alright, love. Here, sit up a bit, there you go. Now can you take three big sips of water for me? Nice and slow… yes, yes, just like that, good. Perfect.” He takes the glass back from Sherlock and returns it to the nightstand, then steps away from the bed, tucking in his shirt and adjusting his trousers before buckling his belt back up. “I need to get back to work; this was just supposed to be my coffee break.”

Sherlock lets out a disgruntled huff.

In an instant, John is at his side, clasping his hand, staring intently into Sherlock’s eyes. “Do you need me to stay home, love? I can always call in and say something came up.”

Slowly, Sherlock takes an assessment of his physical and mental state. Finally, he formulates a response. “No, John, I’m alright. You can leave me. I’ll wait here for you. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good and wait right here for you.”

John beams down at him and leans forward to gently ruffle his hair “Alright, love, if you’re sure. I’m going to put your mobile back in the kitchen, but remember, you can always ring me if you need anything at all. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Please drink your water while I’m away, and try and get some rest. I’m not nearly finished with you yet. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright, then. I’ll see you soon.”

And with that, he walks out the door, leaving Sherlock come-soaked and floating on a cloud of endorphins, drunk with satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I also updated the chapter count, because all the filth simply could not be contained in a mere 8 chapters.


	7. Chapter 7

Everything is lovely. So, so lovely. The light shining in from the bedroom window is golden and beautiful, dappled with thousands of dust mites that glitter and dance through the beams. The bedsheets are cool against his skin. His mind feels soft and blank.

There is nothing else in the world that makes Sherlock feel like this.

Alcohol made him more outgoing; it lowered his inhibitions, but it had little impact on his reactions to external stimuli, and merely served as a magnifier of his current personality. If he drank while he was in a good mood, it would amplify that emotion to a marginal degree. If he drank while he was in a bad mood, it would exacerbate his current state. The correlation was direct, and unsurprising.

Cocaine cleared his mind of everything but that which he currently found relevant. That was the reason it was his drug of choice; it muted the relentless chatter generated by his oversensitivity to external stimuli. It energized him, heightening his mental alertness, and negated the need for tedious undertakings, such as procuring nourishment and sleep. It also made him paranoid, and prone to distraction.

Heroin made everything go away. Nothing mattered when there was heroin in his veins; everything was quiet and dull and distant. Heroin eliminated his reaction to external stimuli altogether. Heroin shut down his hard drive, and turned his transport dysfunctional.

But _this?_

This was the high Sherlock had always sought but could never explain. It was everything he’d always wanted, but thought he could never have. It was the release he’d been desperate for, all those dark years, until John showed him just how perfect the world could be.

When he was drifting like this, he felt truly and completely himself; his personality remained intact, and he was cognisant of the world around him, yet external stimuli failed to overwhelm him. There was a calm sense of purposefulness that descended upon him, absolving him of the need to react to anything other than that which was relevant in that very moment-- a level of discernment that he’d as of yet managed to replicate in everyday life. It was wholly, beautifully liberating.

When he was drifting, his mind was clear. There was a particular type of lucidness that accompanied this state, one which allowed him to ponder the sanctity of his physical, corporeal connection to John without overthinking the repercussions of it. He could allow his transport to simply _exist,_ the _hows_ and _whys_ of it all relegated to white noise humming somewhere in the distance.

Drifting made everything quiet, but it didn’t make it go away. The context of his daily life was still _there,_ he was aware of it in a nebulous, instinctual way, but it wasn’t threatening to overwhelm him. It simply _was_ what it _was,_ and Sherlock could simply _be._

There is nothing, _nothing_ else in the world that could make Sherlock feel like this. Only John, and the beautiful, perfect things he could do to him when they were _unwinding_ together.

It is the ultimate freedom.

John isn’t here right now, but Sherlock is unperturbed. John was very busy, out doing things that Sherlock needn’t concern himself with. All Sherlock needed to do was be _here,_ ready and waiting for John, prepped and open and willing to give John pleasure the moment he decided he wanted it. The rest was inconsequential: that was John’s domain.

Sherlock’s domain is defined by the four edges of their semi-firm mattress in their cozy bedroom tucked into the corner of their shabby flat on Baker Street. Anything beyond the boundaries of the white rectangle upon which he’s currently reclined is of no real significance to him. Whatever was transpiring out there in the real world today, Sherlock could not, to use a particularly apt turn of phrase, be arsed to care.

His transport is relaxed and pliant. He registers some vague sensations of discomfort: the fine sheen of dried sweat on his skin, the stickiness of congealed come coating his chest and abdomen and between his legs, the invasive and persistent pressure of the large plug John had left inside him… but that was all evidence. Evidence that he was _loved_ and _desired_ by a man who wanted him here, just like this, just as he was in this moment. A man who thought he was perfect, even like this. _Especially_ like this.

The _snick_ of the front door lock reverberates down the hall, and in an instant, Sherlock’s heart is beating triple-time. He scrambles into position, tucking his legs beneath himself and folding his hands dutifully in his lap. His cock is half-hard, but he ignores it, gazing with rapt attention at the doorframe.

And then John is striding into the room, his face lighting up the moment his eyes fall on the sight before him.

“Hello, love.” He approaches the bed and cups Sherlock’s face tenderly in his hands before kissing him deeply. Sherlock opens his mouth obediently and John laps gently inside, indulging himself in Sherlock’s automatic submission. 

Finally, he steps back and looks Sherlock up and down appraisingly. “Christ, you look gorgeous, sweetheart. Did you enjoy yourself while I was away?”

“Yes, John.”

He eyes Sherlock’s half-erect member. “Did you touch yourself?”

“Yes, John.”

“Did you come?”

“No, John.”

John raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “Is that so? Why not, love? I told you to enjoy yourself.”

Sherlock bites his lip apprehensively. Had he accidentally disobeyed a command? He hadn’t _meant_ to, certainly not, but… “I didn’t… I didn’t want to come without you.” 

It’s the truth. A few times during the day, he’d gotten a bit worked up thinking about his current state and stroked himself to full hardness, but he’d stopped before he’d ejaculated; it didn’t seem worth it if John wasn’t there to see him. He hopes John isn’t too terribly disappointed.

But instead, John’s face goes soft, and there’s an unmistakable fondness that lights his eyes. “Oh, love. Thank you. That means a lot to me, you know.”

Sherlock relaxes. He hadn’t disappointed John after all.

John steps forward and ruffles his hair, then reaches down to give Sherlock’s shaft a few experimental strokes. Sherlock hisses at the onslaught of sensation, and he’s unable to restrain his hips from pumping eagerly forward, seeking more friction from John’s hand.

“Mmm, lovely. You look so pretty when you get hard just for me, you know that?” John’s gaze is quickly morphing from _fond_ to _hungry,_ and Sherlock utters a quiet cry as John speeds up his strokes. John’s firm hand against the sensitive flesh of his cock feels exquisite, and he can feel his passage clenching around the plug as the thrusts up into John’s grip, stimulating him from within.

But then John backs away again, releasing his hold on Sherlock’s twitching prick. Sherlock continues to helplessly hump the air for a moment before he realises what’s happened, prompting an amused chuckle from John, who’s retreating back towards the wardrobe in the corner, a twinkle in his eye.

“Alright, sweetheart. I need to get out of these clothes. In the meantime, I want you to get yourself off. Ask my permission before you come. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

John blinks back at him expectantly. “Get to it, then.”

For a moment, Sherlock pauses, his brain frantically trying to connect with his transport to accommodate John’s bidding. At last, his hand moves to his own cock, which he begins to jerk at a steady pace.

John’s expression remains politely blank. “Very nice. Keep going.”

And with that, John turns and begins to unceremoniously remove his clothes.

He’s infuriatingly cavalier about it. In fact, he’s behaving as if Sherlock weren’t even in the room at all! He peels off his jumper and deliberately folds it with his usual military precision. Then he slowly unbuttons his shirt and reaches into the wardrobe to procure a hanger upon which to deposit it. Then he peels off his vest and tosses it into the hamper, his back turned to Sherlock the entire time.

Sherlock grunts indignantly and fists himself harder. He wants John to yell at John to _pay attention to him already!,_ but he knows John wouldn’t take kindly to that. Instead, he resigns himself to relying on his wiles. 

He pauses in his ministrations to bring his hand to his mouth and lick it. No reason he shouldn’t enjoy himself-- John hadn’t specified _how_ he should get himself off, so it would seem a bit of lubrication wouldn’t be amiss. He returns his hand to his engorged member, delighting in the satisfyingly slick slide, then resumes stroking himself at a considerably more leisurely pace.

Next, he brings his free hand up to his left nipple, which he pinches delicately. His nipples are notoriously sensitive, and the sensation sends a fresh zing of arousal through him, and he gasps in its wake. He can feel his cock twitch with interest at the proceedings, and he quickly repeats the action with his right nipple, before trailing his fingers down his quivering abdomen to cradle his balls.

He massages his sac indulgently, pressing lightly on his perineum with his index finger before pulling down with a gentle tug. He lets his eyes flutter shut, then tips his head back and _moans._

He doesn’t have to be a genius to know this will get John’s attention. John loves it when Sherlock moans. Sherlock has a large body of evidence to back this up, from both sexual and non-sexual scenarios (though admittedly the non-sexual scenarios, such as when Sherlock would moan around a particularly decadent bite of dessert at a restaurant, usually became sexual _very_ shortly afterwards). As such, moaning is one of the best weapons in his arsenal of seduction tools, and he intends to use it to its fullest extent.

He begins to undulate his hips, thrusting up into his slick fist, thumbing the moist head of his cock with each oscillation. He keeps his eyes shut and his neck bared; he’s well aware that baring his neck is a blatant sign of submission, and it’s one he’s certain John will react favourably to. He releases his grip on his balls and lets his fingers skate up his torso, skimming over the tight nub of his nipple (eliciting a violent shudder) before coming to rest on the bite mark John left on the side of his neck during their second encounter of the day. He takes a deep breath, and pinches the inflamed skin.

“Gah!” The flash of pain is bright and bold, and he can feel his cock emit a generous pulse of precome onto his fist in response. He bites his lip and repeats the action, twisting the sensitive tissue of his throat in his fingers. He hasn’t looked at himself in a mirror all day, but he’s certain the location of the bite mark will be deep purple and swollen where John sucked and worried the flesh between his teeth, and he plucks resolutely at the spot, the pain searing its way down his spine straight to his groin. He moans again in response, louder, and his voice sounds hoarse and desperate even to himself.

“Ohhhh, you like what I’ve done to you, sweetheart?” John’s voice is startlingly close, and Sherlock blinks his eyes open to find John standing mere inches away, staring down at him with rapt attention. Seems his techniques had worked quite the charm… Internally, he preens.

Externally, he blinks demurely up at John and nods, issuing another moan before snapping his hips more resolutely into his own fist.

“Let me help you out a little, then, hmm?” And then John reaches forward with his strong, warm hands. With one, he pinches the bite mark at the base on the opposite side of Sherlock’s neck. With the other, he pinches the bite mark on his shoulder.

They’re both cloyingly sensitive, and Sherlock howls at the stimulation. The pain flares to the forefront of his consciousness, the tenderness of the mottled skin lighting up his nervous system with erotic electricity.

It’s so perfect. Because whatever wires are crossed in Sherlock’s brain, the pain morphes instantly to pleasure, pooling in his groin, stiffening his hard prick impossibly further.

“Oh, fuck, you like that, love? You like it when I mark you up like this while I claim you?”

“Nnnnngh! Yes, John, yes!”

John pinches the skin harder, twisting it between his fingers, and tears spring to Sherlock’s eyes, but he doesn’t relent. He continues to fist his own cock and pinch the bite mark on the side of his neck with unwavering resolve.

“You look so beautiful with these lovely marks on you. So fucking beautiful. Am I the only one you let mark you up, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John! Just you, only you…” Sherlock’s voice is growing higher and more desperate, but he knows what John wants to hear.

“And am I the only one you ever let fuck you?”

“Yes! Yes, John, only you…”

John twists the flesh more brutally, digging his fingernails into the marks. Without thinking, Sherlock mirrors his actions where he’s worrying the side of his own neck. The tears are threatening to spill over now, but Sherlock doesn’t let himself become distracted.

“I’m the only man you’ve ever let put his come inside you?”

“Gah! Gah! Yes, John, I’m yours, only yours, only ever been yours, _God, please! Please!”_

“Fuck yes, you’re mine. Only mine. MINE.” John’s voice is stern and commanding, and Sherlock cannot resist it.

“Fuck! Fuck, John, may I come, please?”

“Oh, you want to come for me?”

“Yes! God, fuck, FUCK! Please, John, I’m-- I’m going to-- I’m-- FUCK!”

“Alright, sweetheart. Come.”

Sherlock’s eyes lock with John’s, the searing connection a palpable heat between them. 

And then everything disappears.

Sherlock’s orgasm is sharp but brilliant. He jerks himself brutally, nearly to the point of pain, as the slick pulses of semen coat his fingers. He tips his head back, wailing helplessly at the onslaught of sensations, but never breaking eye contact with John, who watches with a heated expression as Sherlock falls apart before him.

Finally, the pleasure subsides, and Sherlock is left quivering and dazed. He releases his now-sensitive cock with a mewl before relinquishing his grip on the bite mark on his neck. John immediately follows suit, his fingers transforming from torturous to tender as they stroke Sherlock’s sweat-slick skin, gentling him, bringing him back down from the high.

“There we are, love, shhhh, shhhh, that was beautiful. You were so good for me, sweetheart, doing just what I asked. You’re perfect, perfect, I love you so much…”

Sherlock heaves in a wet, ragged sigh. The tears have dissipated for now, but his orgasm has left him feeling wrung-out and spent. For a while, he simply kneels silently before John, who pets and praises him like he’s the most cherished thing on earth.

Sherlock is rather inclined to believe him.

At long last, John’s hand tenderly cups Sherlock’s jaw, tipping his head up to meet his eye. “You feeling alright, gorgeous?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Would you like a reward for being so pretty and so good for me?”

Sherlock nods eagerly. “Yes, please, John.”

“Alright. I’m going to come in you again as a reward, how would that be?”

Sherlock suddenly can’t think of anything he wants more. “Yes, John, please. I’d like that very much.”

John grins. “You know, I kept getting hard all day at the office thinking about you here, naked and open, waiting for me. Wanted to sneak away and get myself off, but I thought perhaps that come would be put to much better use inside you.”

Sherlock feels breathlessly eager at the thought. “Thank you, John.” John was so, so kind to think of him...

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now, I’ve already taken you four times today, so you may be a little sore. I’ll need you to tell me if anything is getting too painful, alright?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” With that, John reaches down to where his dog tags are hanging against Sherlock’s sternum. He gently lifts them up to Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock automatically opens his mouth so John can place them delicately on his tongue. Sherlock closes his mouth and sucks at them, gratefully. “Hopefully those will keep you occupied while I take you. You’ve been making an awful racket, sweetheart, so I’ll need you to be nice and quiet for me this time around.”

Sherlock nods gratefully. Having John’s tags in his mouth gives him something to focus on besides what’s happening to his transport, which is often helpful when they reach this point in a session, as Sherlock’s body grows sensitive from overuse.

“Alright, love, I want you to turn around and get on your hands and knees for me.” Sherlock complies, arching his back to present his arse for John. The plug presses cruelly against his prostate, but he ignores it; all that matters now is John’s pleasure.

“Oh, that’s beautiful.” John’s hands pry his cheeks apart, and Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose as John’s fingers trace his stretched rim. “Now I want you to get down on your forearms. Forehead touching the mattress. Keep your arse up, yes, just like that, very nice. This will keep all my come in you while I take you again, yeah?” Sherlock nods blearily into the mattress. He’s not really processing much of this at all; he suckles resolutely on the cool tags resting on his tongue.

Then there’s a strange twisting sensation deep inside him, and the next thing he knows, John has withdrawn the plug.

He gasps, his fingers scrabbling to grip the sheets, looking for anything that will ground him. He feels obscenely open; this is certainly the longest he’s spent with a plug in him, not to mention the fact that it was his _large_ plug, not even the smaller standard one. Despite himself, he begins to whimper in anticipation.

“Oh, shhhhh, shhhhh, you’re alright, you’re alright, love.” John’s hands move gently up and down the rippling muscles of Sherlock’s back, a soothing, practiced motion. “Christ, I wish you could see how you look right now, so open and wet and messy. This plug is… damn. It’s something else.” John’s tone has taken on the breathless quality that seems to be reserved for times like this, when he’s analysing the state of Sherlock’s arse after several rounds of debauchment.

“I’m going to start touching you now. If it’s too much, just say stop. If you can’t speak, snap twice. If you need to take a break, that’s fine; we can always try something else for a bit and then pick up where we left off. One snap for yes.”

Without hesitation, Sherlock snaps once. He closes his eyes, and lets his tongue trace the grooves engraved in the the metal discs in his mouth.

He distantly registers the sensation of John’s fingers tracing his rim, then slowly, tentatively penetrating him. It’s not painful, per se, not really, just _overwhelming,_ but John’s tags help keep him grounded.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck… yeah… Christ, sweetheart, you look so good, so full… mmmm, can’t wait to put even more in you…” The sound of skin-on-skin: John’s started stroking himself as he toys with Sherlock’s hole. “Gonna claim you again, sweetheart, mark you up so nicely… make you so messy you can’t stand it, won’t… won’t be able to walk right, _fuck…”_ John’s just running his mouth now, his stream of consciousness unfiltered and profane. Sherlock lets John’s words wash over him. “You’ve been so patient all day, haven’t you, letting me use you just how I want, and now… God, now look at you, you’re so open, _fuck,_ so loose and wet, God, can’t… need to be inside you, fuck, fuck!”

And with that, John lines up his cock and presses the tip inside.

Sherlock slams his eyes shut and issues a high-pitched whine. He hadn’t realised until now just how sore he was, and this latest invasion is pushing him closer to his breaking point. But he trusts John; John won’t let him fall over the edge.

Behind him, John is moaning and pushing the head of is cock in and out in short, aborted movements. His frenulum catches on Sherlock’s rim over and over again, and Sherlock can hear faint squishing sounds as John’s ministrations stir up the come already inside him. It’s an obscene sensation, but Sherlock forces himself to hold still: this is what John wants.

“Oh God, oh God…” John sounds close to the edge already, and he hasn’t even fully penetrated Sherlock. “Sweetheart, you alright? I need you to snap once for me if you’re okay, because I’m about to start fucking you. Last chance to back out.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and snaps once.

Behind him, John lets out a guttural moan. 

And then, an unexpected turn: Sherlock feels John’s fingers wrap around his left wrist. Then he gently picks up Sherlock’s arm, guiding it back until Sherlock’s hand is resting face-up on his own lower back. Then John tangles his fingers with Sherlock’s own, holding his hand tightly. He gives Sherlock’s hand a steady squeeze.

Sherlock understands implicity. They are in this together.

Sherlock squeezes back.

And then John is impaling him and fucking him ferociously, all prior signs of tenderness evaporated. He pistons into Sherlock’s passage at a ruthless pace, grunting and shouting as his free hand grips Sherlock’s hip, holding him in place. Sherlock wills himself to remain relaxed, to allow John to use his transport however he desires. He sucks on the dog tags and holds onto John’s hand for all he’s worth.

And somehow, having John’s hand in his own is the key. Despite the fact that he’s being used so vigorously his brain can’t quite comprehend what is happening to his body, the feeling of John’s fingers entwined with his is the only thing in the world that matters. John is hanging onto him, tethering him to reality, keeping him safe and secure and treasured. No matter what John is currently doing to his arse, he is _holding Sherlock’s hand._ That is the only truth he knows.

“NNNGH! AH! AH! FUCK! Oh, God, sweetheart, take it! Take it! Gonna come inside you! FUCK!” 

Sherlock just moans and wriggles a bit; a calculated display of helplessness.

John leans forward, sinks his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulderblade, and comes with a ragged shout.

Sherlock stills obediently as John rides out the dying crescendo. He’s still forcing his cock into Sherlock in sharp, jerky little thrusts that seem to resonate from Sherlock’s prostate up his spine, but he reminds himself to be _good_ and let John finish with him however he wants. After a few moments, John’s thrusts still, and he lays draped across Sherlock’s back, panting heavily against the skin still trapped between his teeth.

At long last, John relinquishes his hold on the flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder, licking it gently and snuffling affectionately against him. Sherlock can feel John’s cock slowly beginning to soften, and he lets out a contented hum. He knows he’s done well. John was very pleased, and he’s rewarded Sherlock with his come.

With a groan, John pulls himself upright and (to Sherlock’s internal disappointment) lets go of Sherlock’s hand. Then he reaches down to trace the place where they’re joined. Sherlock can feel the area is slippery and wet.

“Jesus Christ. Okay. Okay.” There’s a slight tremor to John’s voice, and Sherlock can tell he’s struggling to get himself back under control.

“Mmm. Alright. Love, there’s something special I’d like right now, but I’ll need your verbal consent. Can you spit out the tags for me?” He pulls lightly at the chain around Sherlock’s neck, and the discs slip from between Sherlock’s lips, landing on the mattress with a light clink.

“Thank you. I’d like to take a picture or two now, sweetheart. Would that be alright with you?”

Sherlock swallows hard, but then musters up the will to reply. “Yes, John.”

“Okay. Thank you, love. Just hold very, very still, now…” There’s the sound of some fumbling, and Sherlock winces as John’s softening cock shifts awkwardly inside of him. 

They have strict rules about photography during sessions: the pictures must be taken on the old Polaroid camera they keep in the nightstand; no digital copies or standard film of any kind. And no video or audio recordings whatsoever. Those were the rules they’d made, and John is fastidious about sticking to them.

“Ah! Here we go.” John sounds rather delighted, and Sherlock concludes the Polaroid camera has been successfully retrieved.

“Okay, love. Can you reach behind yourself and spread your cheeks for me?” Sherlock complies, grimacing as he does so. He feels obscenely filthy.

“Oh, FUCK, that’s it. Hold still, now…” With that, John maneuvers his cock in and out, eliciting more pornographically wet sounds. Sherlock can feel liquid gathering at his rim. “Fuck, oh fuck, yes, YES, so much come, Jesus…” The snap of the shutter. “Christ, that’s gorgeous. One more, love, I just want one more to show how open you are. Hold still for me…” And with that, John withdraws his cock entirely.

Sherlock moans. He feels more loose and open and messy than he has in recent memory, and the sensation is quickly becoming invasive.

Luckily, John doesn’t dally. Sherlock hears the shutter click a few more times, and then John is pressing a soft kiss to his spine. “Beautiful, so beautiful, we’re all done now, you were perfect.”

Sherlock sighs with relief.

“Is it alright if I put the large plug back in, sweetheart?”

Christ, there was going to be _more?_ The idea is incomprehensible to Sherlock in his currently fucked-out state.

But… what else could John possibly have planned? He finds he’s rather keen to find out.

“Go ahead, John.”

And with that, he feels the head of the plug, now re-slicked with lube, press back inside him. John seats it entirely, then gently guides Sherlock onto his side, where he lies gazing up at John, dazed and delirious.

“Hi there, love.” John perches beside him on the bed and cards his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

“Hi, John.”

“You doing alright?”

“Mmmhmm. I need… I just need a rest.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Rest, now. I’m going to get us a little something to eat. You’re being so good, love, so very, very good, you know that?”

Sherlock snuggles contentedly into the pillow. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome, love. Now, rest. I’ll be back soon.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer: For those of you familiar with this series, you know that pain play is hard limit for these two - but that sexual overstimulation is fair game. This chapter contains a variation of that dynamic that could be perceived as pushing those boundaries a bit. If you have an aversion to blurred lines between pleasurable/painful sex or are turned off by crying during sex, it’s probably best you skip the sexual part of this particular chapter. The beginning is fine--it’s just fluff and humour-- but once the sexy bits start, tap out and then pick back up with the next chapter! You won’t miss any major plot points.
> 
> That said, as always, everything that transpires is explicitly consented to by both parties and is both safe and sane—I’m just trying to be sensitive of the varying degrees of tolerance for pain play that readers of this series have, since pain is not a common element incorporated into these sessions.

John delicately sucks at Sherlock’s left nipple as his fingers lightly toy with the right. Sherlock sighs contentedly, arching his back, pressing his pec more deeply into John’s mouth. John chuckles and nips playfully at the pebbled bud, then lets out a contented sigh of his own.

They’ve been at this for a while. After John had fed Sherlock dinner (sushi from John’s favourite place), encouraged him to drink another glass of water, then ate some dinner himself, he’d climbed naked into bed and pulled Sherlock close, his hands skimming gently over Sherlock’s sensitive skin. Sherlock had curled up against him, burrowing into the safety of John’s presence, and John had held him and asked him about his day.

Sherlock wasn’t really in the headspace to describe how his day had been, but he’d managed to string together a few delirious sentences as John carded his fingers through his hair and petted his relaxed body. Then John had talked for a while about his own day, and Sherlock had listened, occasionally asking questions or making vague sounds of affirmation.

Then they’d kissed for a while, deep and sensual and slow, yet somehow the kissing didn’t feel sexual, just intimate and pure. Eventually they’d paused, for some reason Sherlock can’t quite recall, and then they’d started talking some more.

They’d talked for a long time, about a lot of things. They’d talked about the progress Sherlock had made yesterday at the lab. They’d talked a bit about John’s family, about his dad’s health and Harry’s sobriety. They didn’t talk about his mum, but that was alright. They talked about Rosie and Molly and something about the Stamfords’ new house. They’d talked about the renovations they were currently undertaking on 221C, the conversation flowing effortlessly, thoughtlessly. 

All the while, John held Sherlock, running his hands across his exposed skin, occasionally skimming over his tender nipples or softened cock but never stimulating him sexually, just making him feel safe and cherished. Sherlock wasn’t ashamed of any part of his body when he was with John: the scars on his back, the track marks on his arms, the bullet wound on his abdomen, his hip bones that poked out at odd angles, his knobby knees, the way his prick looked when it was flaccid… John made every bit of him feel beautiful.

And now John was sucking and pinching at his nipples, his free hand tracing lazy patterns from Sherlock’s anklebone to his knee and back again while Sherlock mindlessly rattled off the metrics for the sink he’d ordered to be installed in the laboratory they were putting in 221C. 

“...and that’s why I ordered the model with one basin, instead of two.”

“Mmmm.” John’s response is muffled where he’s latched his lips around Sherlock’s areola, flicking the pebbled nub of his nipple with his tongue, creating a sensation that makes Sherlock’s groin tingle and his abs tighten. 

Sherlock sighs again, almost dizzy with contentment.

With a wet _pop,_ John relinquishes his hold on Sherlock’s nipple and raises his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. John’s eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed and he looks so goddamn handsome, it makes Sherlock feel weak in the knees, despite the fact he’s currently lying down.

“Well, I think you made the right choice, sweetheart. I’m sure the sink will be perfect.”

Sherlock grins at him, and John surges forward to press a deep kiss against his lips.

“Alright, love. Roll over for me?”

Sherlock does, with a light grunt. The plug is still inside him, and though he’d grown used to the sensation while he was lying still, the sudden movement reminds him of just how intense the penetration is.

“Gorgeous, gorgeous.” John kneels up beside Sherlock and runs his hands down the muscles of his back, massaging them gently. He works his way from the top down, eventually letting his grip wander even lower, seizing the two globes of Sherlock’s arse. 

When John speaks again, his tone is disarmingly conversational. “Goddamn, Sherlock. Every day I wake up and think that I must have been imagining just how magnificent your arse is, because no human being could have one so absolutely perfect. And then _every damn day,_ you give me an eyeful of this masterpiece, and it’s even better than I fucking remember.”

He leans down and begins to trail kisses across Sherlock’s cheeks, then issues a series of delicate kitten licks along the crease where his bum meets his thigh. Sherlock giggles and buries his face in the pillow, slightly mortified by John’s mullings.

“Christ, sweetheart, what you do to me with this thing ought to be illegal.” He playfully nips at the fleshiest part, and Sherlock gasps, his legs spreading instinctually. John moans and pulls his cheeks open, planting a wet, filthy kiss against where the plug is holding Sherlock wide.

“Going to take your plug out now, alright? Not going to fuck you again yet, just want to play with you a bit. Is that okay?”

Sherlock shifts, spreading his legs further. “Yes, John. Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Then there’s an uncomfortable pinching sensation, followed by a dull throb of pressure, but it’s over as soon as it started, and Sherlock is open and exposed for John. He shudders as the cool air of the bedroom comes into contact with that most intimate place.

“Jesus, that’s lovely. That’s so lovely. Now, love, just let me know if any of this is too uncomfortable, alright? I’d like to indulge myself a bit, but I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“Alright, John. I’ll let you know.”

And with that, John slips his fingers inside Sherlock. They slide in easily; he’s so wet and open and full of come and lube, there’s barely any resistance at all, and Sherlock doesn’t even register a flicker of pain. It feels nice. Not good, not bad, just… nice.

“Mmmm, look at that.” John swirls his fingers around and then pulls them out before pressing them firmly back in and repeating the action. Sherlock can tell he’s admiring his own come; John has always loved seeing his come in Sherlock, and Sherlock has a distinct suspicion that a large part of today’s activities have been geared towards facilitating that process.

“You know, your arse ought to be declared a national treasure.”

Sherlock snickers as John’s fingers withdraw to lightly scissor and stretch his rim. “Yes, John, for that matter, why not start a petition to have it declared the seventh wonder of the world?”

John’s fingers pause in their ministrations, and Sherlock raises his head to glance back over his shoulder. “What? What’s wrong?”

“...Sherlock, you do realise there are already seven wonders of the world. That’s… that’s the whole thing about it. Seven being a sacred number and all.”

Sherlock huffs and turns his face back to the pillow. “You’re lying.”

John laughs, effortlessly casual as he plunges his fingers back into Sherlock’s hole (it feels like four fingers… Christ, was Sherlock really _that_ open? The thought barely flickers through his mind before his attention is redirected back to the matter at hand). “I’m really not lying, love.”

“Fine. Name them.”

“Um, let’s see.” John scissors his fingers open deep inside Sherlock’s channel, and Sherlock jerks and grunts, but quickly settles. “The pyramids of Giza. The statue of Zeus in… Olympia, I think? Then I think one was some sort of mausoleum…”

“You’re talking out of your arse, John.”

“No, I’m talking while in yours.”

That sets the two of them off for a good five minutes, and by the time they collect themselves, Sherock feels nearly delirious with fondness for the man behind him. Eventually John gets his wits about him and resumes fingering Sherlock’s hole, using his free hand to pull one of his cheeks aside, exposing him further.

“Alright, so maybe your arse isn’t one of the wonders of the world, but it should at the very least have a sonnet written about it by now.”

Sherlock snickers again. “And how exactly would that go?”

John lazily traces the circumference of Sherlock’s rim with a single finger, making Sherlock quiver in anticipation. Then he clears his throat, and in his poshest accent, begins, “Shall I compare thine arse to a midsummer’s day? It art more plush and pert. So soft yet firm and fucking delicious, and hot and tight for play.”

Sherlock can’t contain his laughter any longer, and it’s a beautiful distraction from the stimulation inside his hole. “A noble attempt, John, but your grasp of iambic pentameter appears shaky at best.”

John’s laughing, too, then resumes pistoning his fingers in and out, the wet sound obscene and intoxicating all at once. “What can I say, I’m a working-class bloke, not much for the flowery stuff. How about a limerick instead? _There once was a detective from London…”_

“Oh, my God, John, STOP!”

_“Whose pert bum I put my cock in.”_

“John!”

_“He spread his cheeks wide, in and out I did slide, ‘till I filled him up good all within.”_

Sherlock can’t breathe he’s laughing so hard, desperately gasping into the pillow, and he’s joined moments later by John, having collapsed helplessly into another round of hysterics. All thoughts of sexual intimacy fall by the wayside as they struggle to collect themselves, each attaining a degree of success before being set off by the other in a vicious cycle that lasts far longer than wholly appropriate.

By the time they regain their bearings, Sherlock feels punch-drunk and giddy. All the endorphins surging through his system are multiplying every emotion by tenfold, and he’s relieved when John grasps his hand and locks eyes with him, the mood quickly turning serious.

“God, Sherlock, I love you.”

“I love you, too, John.”

John reaches forward and lightly brushes the hair away from his face. “Alright, sweetheart. We need to be serious for a moment here, okay?”

Sherlock nods, suddenly solemn.

“I’d like to try something new tonight. It isn’t something we’ve negotiated before, but I’ve read about it on the message boards, and it doesn’t violate any of our limits. That said, the information I’ve read indicates that it can be really, really intense. That means we need to _communicate._ I need you to trust me to take care of you, and I need to be able to trust you to let me know if we need to stop. Is that something you feel up to right now?”

Sherlock takes a swift analysis of his current state. The lengthy break since their last encounter has done wonders to rejuvenate him; He feels lucid and calm, and all the talking he and John have been doing indicates he’s capable of coherent communication.

He nods resolutely. “Yes, John.”

“Alright. Let’s review some rules, okay?”

“Okay, John.”

“You can make as much noise as you want, but if you’d like to stop, I need you to clearly say ‘Stop.’ If you’re incapable of speaking, snap twice. Any questions?”

“No, John.”

“If you need to take a break, signal a stop and we can talk it through. There’s no shame in needing a break, and it doesn’t mean that we’re ending the session, it just means we need to slow down. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“And last, if you don’t like this, _don’t hesitate to tell me._ I’ve never tried it either, so this is going to be completely new for both of us. We need to be honest with each other about whether it’s working. If you don’t like it, I won’t be disappointed. And if I don’t like it, I don’t want you to feel like you’ve failed me. This is just an experiment, okay?”

Sherlock’s heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. This is a more intense discussion than he and John normally have mid-session, but he wills himself to relax, and trust John’s instincts. “Okay, John.”

“Okay, love. Let’s get started.” With that, John leans forward and tenderly kisses Sherlock’s forehead.

When he pulls away, all traces of the kind, gentle man that had been beside him moments ago are gone. In his place is Dom John: impassive, domineering, commanding. Sherlock shivers.

“Spread your legs.” Sherlock complies thoughtlessly, and watches with rapt anticipation as John retrieves the ribbed plug from where he’d left it on the nightstand. He coates it with lube, then reaches down, pulls Sherlock’s cheek aside, and presses it in.

Sherlock grunts and shifts, but he doesn’t protest. The plug doesn’t even feel that bad anymore; he’s growing desensitised to it.

“Roll over.” John maneuvers down the bed and presses Sherlock’s thighs apart. Then he lowers his head, and sucks Sherlock’s cock into his mouth.

Sherlock moans decadently. He hadn’t been turned on while they were talking, not really, but the feeling of John’s mouth on his prick is bloody _fantastic,_ and his member quickly rises to the occasion.

And then John proceeds to give Sherlock the most incredible, decadent blow job of his goddamn life.

He takes _ages_ with it, alternating greedy licks up the length of his shaft with lavish sucks that make the tip of his cock hit the back of John’s open throat. Occasionally he makes his way further south to pull one of Sherlock’s balls into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as he gently presses his fingers against Sherlock’s perineum, then repeats the action with the other ball until Sherlock is quivering and moaning and begging for more. And then John simply pulls away and resumes his ministrations on Sherlock’s shaft.

Strangely, John does nothing that suggests he’s dominating Sherlock as he fellates him. After a while, Sherlock tentatively reaches down and tangles his fingers in John’s hair, and John simply happily hums an affirmation. It’s incredibly odd; normally touching John while he’s blowing Sherlock during a session would be an absolute no-go-- John would keep Sherlock tied up or order him to hold his hands in a particular position, maintaining his dominance even as he serviced Sherlock’s cock. But tonight, he’s letting Sherlock touch him, and Sherlock can’t help but feel a bit apprehensive as he guides John’s head up and down, using John’s mouth to maximise his own pleasure, as if they were having a normal vanilla encounter. It feels very, very strange.

But John doesn’t show any signs of displeasure. He simply continues to lavish attention on Sherlock’s throbbing member, and eventually, all of Sherlock’s trepidation fades away and he allows himself to simply enjoy the ride.

All to soon, can feel his balls begin to tighten in preparation for release. John gives them a gentle tug; he’s clearly noticed that Sherlock’s getting close, too. He pulls away from Sherlock’s shaft and meets his eyes, his mouth distractingly pink and wet.

“You feeling good, love?”

Sherlock can barely stammer out an answer. “Fuck, yes, John, this is… this is incredible.”

“Good. I’d like you to come in my mouth now, alright?”

Sherlock furrows his brow. John wanted him to _come in his mouth?_ That was so contrary to everything John normally allows when he’s dominating Sherlock, but hell, he realises he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “Yes, John.”

John gives him a resolute nod. Then he reaches down and flicks on the vibration function of Sherlock’s plug before swallowing his cock all the way to the base.

It’s transcendent. It’s so good, it’s so goddamn good, Sherlock realises distantly that he’s pretty sure he’s pulling John’s hair as the fucks up into his mouth, but hell, it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except for the sweet release barrelling down the horizon…

And then he’s there, coming in consuming waves, emptying himself into John’s willing mouth, wailing and swearing at the sensation. The vibrations from the plug increase the intensity exponentially, and his vision dims and there’s a rushing in his ears and he’s coming and coming and coming…

When he finally surfaces, he feels as if he’s been turned inside out. He’s sweaty and shaking and utterly discombobulated, and he moans as he blinks his eyes open to where John’s still positioned devoutly between his spread legs.

The vibrator is still on and his cock is still in John’s mouth. John’s sucking him methodically, Sherlock’s softening member shiny and wet between his lips. Now that his orgasm has passed, it doesn’t feel good anymore; he’s far too sensitive, and he whines and gives John’s hair a light tug, signalling to him it’s time to stop. His efforts have crossed the line from pleasurable to painful.

John’s eyes snap up to meet his. To Sherlock’s surprise, they’re cold and calculating. Then John gives Sherlock’s limp cock a _hard_ suck.

“Gah, fuck! John, it’s… that’s too much, please--”

John mercifully pulls away from his prick, and Sherlock sighs with relief. But John is glaring down at him, and Sherlock suddenly realises that something dreadful is about to happen.

“Get your hands out of my hair. Cross your wrists above your head.” Sherlock complies so quickly he doesn’t even process the command before his arms are raised above him, hands touching. His chest feels tight.

“Now hold still.” And with that, John lowers his head and licks hungrily at Sherlock’s spent member.

And God, it _hurts._ Sherlock gasps and writhes, his thighs clenching together automatically in defense, coming precariously close to putting John in a headlock.

John sits bolt upright again, glaring down at Sherlock. _Shit, oh shit…_ Sherlock hadn’t meant to disobey, it had been a _reflex, fuck--_

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, _darling?”_ Shit, shit, John only calls him _darling_ when Sherlock’s misbehaved… this is bad, this is very bad. Sherlock feels tears spring to his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John! I’m sorry. I’ll hold still. I’ll hold still. I promise, I’m sorry…”

“Damn right you’re going to hold still. I decide to give you a treat, let you come in my mouth, and this is how you repay me? By wiggling around like a spoiled brat while I’m trying to enjoy myself?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please, John, please, go ahead, please, do whatever you want, please!”

John heaves an exasperated sigh. “One more chance. One more chance to be good for me. Now keep your hands where they are and _hold still.”_

And with that, he presses Sherlock’s legs firmly apart, settles between them, and sucks Sherlock’s cock into his mouth once more, where he proceeds to swallow greedily around it.

Sherlock screams. 

It isn’t as if John hasn’t overstimulated him before. He has. But it’s usually been his prostate, using a vibrator or his fingers. The few times he’s overstimulated Sherlock’s shaft, it’s generally been while he was edging him, keeping him turned on for an extended period of time, not manhandling him post-orgasm. He’d very occasionally made Sherlock jerk himself off twice in a row in short succession, but that had always been near the beginning of a session, when Sherlock’s libido was still going strong.

But _this?_ This is something else entirely, terrible in its intensity. Sherlock had already come six times, and each time had been earth-shattering; he’s fairly certain he’s not going to be able to come again tonight. Whatever John is doing, it’s not to bring Sherlock pleasure.

“John! Fuck, fuck! JOHN!” He wants to scramble away, escape the onslaught of sensation, but no, no, he has to be good… He locks his hands in place above his head and shuts his eyes.

Between his legs, he can feel John’s mouth pull away for a brief second. Then he’s closing his fist around Sherlock’s shaft and flicking his tongue into his slit over and over again. It feels incredible but awful all at once, and Sherlock’s back arches despite his best efforts.

Wrong move. The new angle causes the plug to press directly against his prostate, and a fresh wave of agony overtakes him. He feels his limp cock jerk in John’s hand, and John issues a deep, dark chuckle. Then he pulls Sherlock’s shaft fully into his mouth once more.

The realisation of what is happening dawns on him. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” The words come out as a whimper. There is no escape from this. John wants to overstimulate him for the sake of overstimulating him; not to bring on another orgasm, not to extend his pleasure, but to test his submission. This is all a test.

He tries to steel his resolve. He tries to focus on staying relaxed, but he _can’t:_ the pain between his legs is too consuming to ignore. John’s massaging his balls now as well, adding to the onslaught already addling his prick and arse, and the whole area feels hot and cold and impossibly tight all at once.

“John. Oh, John. John, please…” He’s not quite sure what he’s begging for. For it to stop, absolutely-- that much is obvious. But he’s also begging for John to see: how good he’s being, how still and calm. How he’s surrendering his transport, no questions asked, for John to use as he pleases.

John’s mouth disappears, and Sherlock blinks his eyes open hopefully, but the respite is brief. John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s shaft and continues to jerk him lightly as he stares down at him, helpless and consumed. “Good, sweetheart. You’re being very good. Just relax, love, just let it happen, alright?”

Sherlock groans, and John’s fist tightens. He jerks him faster. “Yes. Yes, John, I’ll be good. Go ahead. I’ll be good.” 

Then John positions himself once more, and takes Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth. 

Sherlock begins to cry.

It’s not because of the pain. There’s pain, of course there’s pain; his arse feels so overused and the vibrations are so intense they almost feel like nothing at all, and his shaft is so sensitive that every pull of John’s lips feels like a vice constricting ruthlessly around him.

But more than that, it’s the surrender. He’s never felt more helpless, more at John’s mercy. Even when John used to tie him up, tease him, tempt him until he was a begging, writhing mess, he’d never felt as immobilised and overwhelmed as he does in this moment. The overstimulation is so consuming it’s nauseating in its intensity, and he can’t tell if he wants to pass out or be sick.

But he doesn’t want to do either of those things, really. Because then John would stop.

And despite everything he’s feeling in this moment, he doesn’t want John to stop.

Because he can finally show John what he means to him. This is how Sherlock feels about John, stripped down to its barest, rawest form. He will lay himself down, spread himself out, and give John his heart, his body, his soul, and never even think to ask why. In this moment, he can finally demonstrate to John just how far he would go for him.

He’s died twice for John.

Yet this feels so much more real. _This_ is his true death, the death of his selfish self, the abandonment of body and mind at John’s behest. This is his sacrifice.

He sobs. 

But he holds still.

John continues to work him over for an indefinite amount of time. Sherlock’s mind folds in on itself, layers of pain on pain, his transport disengaging entirely. He’s trapped inside himself, in the agony radiating from his groin up his spine, spinning its tentacles around his brain and dragging him under.

But then John’s mouth disappears, and the vibrations stop, the pressure of the plug evaporating instantly.

Sherlock blinks through wet lashes, attempting to re-orient himself. But before he can make any progress, John’s pressing his thighs back towards his chest, lining up his own rigid cock, and thrusting inside Sherlock’s loose hole.

Sherlock cries out, a fresh wave of tears overtaking him. But John is unmerciful. He reaches down and grabs Sherlock’s still-flaccid prick, and begins to jerk it roughly.

Sherlock wants to beg, but his mouth won’t form the words. He’s just uttering mortifying, wet howls, dampened with tears and mucus, broken and punctuated pleas. John stares down at him, and begins to thrust.

They make eye contact. Sherlock is bawling, but John doesn’t look away. He just watches.

Sherlock has known for a long time that it turns John on to see him cry when they’re fucking. He’s never minded it-- in all honesty, he’s found it hot as hell from the first time he noticed it. But he also knows John _hates_ that about himself. 

For ages, Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. But now that they’re in counselling and Sherlock is learning more about _empathy_ and _accessing his emotions,_ he’d eventually put together that John hates it that he’s turned on when Sherlock cries because John sees himself as a _caregiver._ Above all, he wants to save people, to be the good guy, the old-fashioned, masculine hero. To have a fetish for mid-coital tears was, in essence, the antithesis of that.

Sherlock has worked hard to make John see that making Sherlock cry during sex _was_ taking care of him; just not in a traditional sense. And now it’s seems John’s found himself inclined to believe him.

John seems to tower over Sherlock as he takes him hard and fast, looming down to press his thighs further back, opening him wider. Sherlock screams again, and he can feel his passage clench tight around John’s hot length.

“That’s it, that’s it now, come on, love…” Sherlock gasps in a wet hiccup, and John leers at him. He pulls harder at Sherlock’s cock, igniting another escalation of pain. “Oh, yeah, fuck! Yes! God, yes, take it! Take it!”

“John, please.” The words are wet and come out no louder than a sigh. John leans in close to Sherlock’s face, his teeth bared, fire in his eyes.

“That’s it. Beg me, now. Beg me.”

“Please. Please. John. Please.” Sherlock dissolves into sobs, unable to withstand it any longer.

But that’s all it takes. The next thing he knows, John’s sinking his teeth into his clavicle and coming.

He grinds his cock mercilessly into Sherlock’s arse, screaming his pleasure into the skin captured between his teeth. Sherlock holds very, very still, making sure his arms stay in place above his head and that his legs are spread wide and that he relaxes as much as he can, to let John push himself in as deeply as possible. He can feel John continuing to release even after he stops moving, his prick twitching and spurting the excesses of his pleasure into Sherlock’s willing, wilted form.

Then John is kissing his neck, pressing his lips to the new bite mark on his clavicle. Sherlock whimpers and shifts ever so slightly beneath his weight.

Barely a moment later, John’s pulling himself onto his forearms, cuping Sherlock’s face in his hands, wiping frantically at the tears with his thumbs. “Oh God, sweetheart, oh God. Are you alright? Sherlock, tell me you’re alright, please…”

Sherlock summons every ounce of strength he has left inside him. “‘m okay, John.” He hiccups wetly. “‘m fine. Was good.”

John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s, their breath intermingling, hot and heated. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, _fuck…”_

“Are… are you okay?” The words are clumsy on Sherlock’s tongue, but he forces them out.

John pulls back slightly, until he’s able to look Sherlock in the eye. “I’m perfect. That was… that was… Jesus, sweetheart, I can’t tell you… you were _so good._ You were _so fucking good for me,_ oh God, Sherlock, what did I ever do in this world to deserve you?” His eyes suddenly appear alarmingly wet.

He hasn’t given Sherlock permission to move his hands yet, so Sherlock simply lifts his head and kisses him, gentle and sweet. John melts against his mouth.

The next time they break apart, John seems to have composed himself. He looks calm and collected as he slowly raises himself up onto his knees. “Mmm, okay, love. Going to pull out, then I need to check you over really quickly, alright?”

“Yes, John.”

John withdraws his spent cock, and Sherlock begins to cry again.

It’s not out of desperation this time. It’s a deep, clawing _disappointment_ that they have to be apart. He wants to be joined with John forever and ever. It’s unfair that they can’t be like that always. It’s so _unfair._

“Sherlock, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Sherlock sniffles but pulls himself together as best he can; he doesn’t want to worry John. “No, I’m fine, I’m… I just need to cry now. But I’m not hurt.” He doesn’t have the energy or the wherewithal to explain further. Luckily, they’ve been doing this together long enough now that John doesn’t request any further affirmation.

John simply presses a gentle kiss to his kneecap, encouraging and sweet. Sherlock’s relieved that John understands now when he needs to cry; it doesn’t worry him anymore. “Okay, love. Go ahead, let it all out. It’s alright, I’ve got you. Going to touch you inside really quickly, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock doesn’t really register it as John checks him over. The tears keep coming, and he lets them. John said it was alright, so Sherlock just lets it be.

“Okay, sweetheart, you’re all good. Everything’s in order. You can move your hands, now.” Sherlock stretches out his aching arms and returns them gratefully to his sides. “Want to rest for a minute, then I’ll take you to the shower and get you all nice and clean?”

Sherlock swallows hard. He… doesn’t actually want that, at all. He hesitates, but then reminds himself he’d promised John he’d be honest.

“Actually… can you put the plug back in?”

John’s brow furrows and he looks slightly taken aback. “Are… are you sure?”

“Don’t turn on the vibrations, just… put it back in. I just want to be full of you for a while. Want… want to be close to you.”

Understanding blooms across John’s face, and he gives a compassionate nod. The next thing Sherlock knows, John’s sliding the plug back into him. Then he pulls Sherlock into his arms, cradling him deeply, pressing a series of soft kisses into his curls.

“God, sweetheart, I love you so, so much. You’re so good for me, so perfect. You know that?”

Sherlock hums. The tears are subsiding, and he’s starting to feel warm and floaty again. “Mmm. Thank you, John.”

“You’re amazing and brilliant and everything I ever wanted but never knew I could have. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

John’s words are a balm, soothing every ache and pain in Sherlock’s body. He just lets John hold him, and rock him, and speak words of praise and fidelity over and over again. The two of them against the rest of the world.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock blinks his eyes open. It’s dark in the bedroom; the lamp on the nightstand is on, but outside it’s pitch black. He shifts and attempts to assess his surroundings. 

John is curled up facing him, his arms still around Sherlock. He’s asleep, but barely; judging by the movements of his eyes, he’s just at the very beginning of a REM cycle. Sherlock hums contentedly and snuggles up against his chest.

He replays the events of today with a deep sense of satisfaction. What a _perfect_ day it had been! And to think, this was their first extended session since they’d taken a break from power exchanges… he’s hard-pressed to imagine how it could have gone better.

He thinks back over all of their encounters today, for the first time noticing that John had bitten him at the end of each one. A smile creeps across his face: that meant he’d have a love bite as a souvenir for every time he’d taken John! He hadn’t registered it at the time; he’d been too out of his mind with lust. God, John was _so thoughtful, so clever!_ He knows Sherlock all too well.

Preening a bit, he runs his fingers over each bite, happily recalling the encounter that had earned it. But when he gets to the one on his clavicle, he stops.

Six.

He has six bite marks.

He’d taken John six times.

The edges of his mouth turn down into a pensive frown.

He… he shouldn’t be greedy. After all, this _was_ John’s birthday. But still, wasn’t it ever so slightly unfortunate that--

Before he can stop himself, he’s shaking John awake. John’s eyelids flutter open, and he’s instantly alert.

“You alright, sweetheart?” 

“Yes, John, I’m fine. I just… what time is it?”

John gives him a perplexed look. “Um, I’m not sure. I took the clock out of here, and I think my mobile’s in the kitchen somewhere…”

“Could you get it?”

John gives Sherlock a look like he’s lost his damn mind, but he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and plods to the kitchen, returning a few moments later.

“It’s a quarter to midnight.” He tosses the phone onto the nightstand and offers Sherlock a hand. “You ready to get cleaned up? We need to start with your aftercare, I can’t let you sleep through the night like this, love.”

Sherlock gives him his most innocent, earnest look. “I want you to fuck me again.”

John raises his eyebrow skeptically. “Right, and I want an Aston Martin V8 Vantage, but unfortunately, some things are just not going to happen. Now, come on.” He extends his hand more adamantly.

Sherlock pulls himself into a sitting position, managing to disguise his wince as the plug shifts inside him. “But our _record.”_

For a moment, John looks completely lost. Then he buries his face in his hands. “Oh my GOD, Sherlock, you and the damn record!”

Sherlock shrugs. “What? It’s just, I’ve taken you six times in one session before. That was our previous record. And I’ve taken you six times today! If you… if you just take me once more, that’ll be a new record!”

John sighs, and gives Sherlock his most exasperated look. “Love, as much as I would like to oblige you on that front, I have some bad news: _we are only getting older._ We can’t keep chasing new records until one of us drops dead mid-coitus of a coronary.”

Sherlock lets out an indignant huff. “That doesn’t seem like the worst way to go.”

“Not if you’re the one dying, but if you’re on the other end of that equation…”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Fair point.”

“Besides, I honestly don’t think I could get it up again right now. You’ve run me ragged today, sweetheart.”

Sherlock bats his eyes up at him. “I bet I could get you to come again.” The thought of a _challenge_ is rather intoxicating.

John cocks his head. “And how, exactly, would you do that?”

Oooh, Sherlock has him _beat._ Doing his best to disguise his own smug smile, Sherlock simply pulls back the covers and gestures to the spot on the bed next to him. “Why don’t you come here and find out?”

For a moment, John hesitates, but Sherlock doesn’t doubt himself for a second. The next thing he knows, John is clambering back into bed, shaking his head in resignation. “Honest to God, the things I let you talk me into. So, love. Tell me about this brilliant plan of yours to make your middle-aged partner come for the seventh time today.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, plucks the lube off the nightstand, squeezes a dollop into his palm, and takes John’s cock gently into his hand. He fondles him lavishly, decadently, stimulating him to nearly-full hardness, occasionally pausing to cradle his balls expertly, exactly the way he knows John likes it best. Beside him, John sighs and moans appreciatively, but after a while, he shifts uncomfortably and turns to meet Sherlock’s eye. 

“Sweetheart, that feels really good, but I’m too spent to get completely hard again like that. If I’m going to come, it’s going to need to be intense, and honestly, I don’t want to take you roughly again today. We’ve both had enough.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t worry, John. I have a plan.”

With that, he lays down next to John and spreads his legs. “Are you hard enough to penetrate me?”

John gives his prick an appraising stroke. “Yeah, seems so.”

Sherlock gestures vaguely to the place between his legs. “Well? By all means…”

John laughs and clumsily clambers into position. “Okay. You better have a good plan here, love.”

Sherlock meets his eye. “Do you trust me?”

John is suddenly solemn. He answers with an unwavering, “Yes.”

“Take out the plug and penetrate me.”

As gently as possible, John unseats the plug. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock lets out a hiss; he’s achingly sensitive, and his hole feels hot and raw. 

Between his legs, John is staring at his opening, a rather gobsmacked impression on his face. 

“John?”

He snaps out of it. “Sorry! Sorry, you just… I mean, Christ, you’re so messy right now, I can’t even think straight…”

“Well then how about you leave the thinking to me? Just put your cock inside me already.”

John narrows his eyes. “Watch your tone right now, love. This session isn’t over. You may be the one with the plan at the moment, but I’m the one in charge. Understood?”

Sherlock feels suddenly very hot all over. “Yes, John. Sorry, John.”

“Good. Now, hold still.” With that, he grabs Sherlock’s left thigh and presses it to his chest, then guides his cock inside him.

“Nnnngh!” Sherlock arches and gasps. He feels deliciously overused; he’s so wet inside, he barely registers the friction of the turgid flesh penetrating him.

John’s eyes have fluttered shut, and he’s grunting lightly as he issues a series of shallow thrusts into Sherlock’s abused channel. “Oh, fuck, you’re so wet, Jesus… God, already so full of me…”

Sherlock rolls his hips, and John slips in deeper. “Mmm, yes.”

John sets a steady rhythm, his thrusts deliberate yet not overly forceful. He moves in and out of Sherlock with delicate precision, and Sherlock moans gratefully at the sensation.

Eventually, John goes still. “So what next, sweetheart? I’m hard, but… I’m not really getting any closer. No offense, you feel amazing, it’s just… been a long day.”

Sherlock gives him a devilish grin. Then he reaches over and picks up the vibrating plug and holds it aloft.

John’s brow furrows; he looks utterly lost. “What… what are you going to do with that?”

“I’m going to use it on you.”

John gives him an exasperated look. “Sherlock, you know I can’t come from anal penetration. That’s only going to make things worse.” He moves to withdraw his cock from Sherlock’s arse entirely, but Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist, locking him resolutely in place. 

“John, don’t panic, I’m not going to put it inside you.”

John quits trying to pull out, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced, either. “So… what are you going to do with it?”

Sherlock peers up at him, his face open and relaxed. “You still trust me?”

There’s no hesitation. John nods.

“Alright, then, John. Just hold still.” And with that, Sherlock flicks the vibrator on.

It’s still slick with John’s come and copious amounts of lube from the lengthy time in Sherlock’s passage. As gently as he can, Sherlock reaches around with his free hand to part John’s arsecheeks. Then he carefully guides the vibrator into his crack.

John gives a full body shudder. “Oh-- oh Jesus. Oh-okay. Okay. Easy now.”

Sherlock nods, and very slowly traces the vibrator down, lower and lower. He can feel it catch temporarily against John’s furled hole (John visibly trembles), but Sherlock remains undeterred. He just guides it even lower, until the tip of it is resting against John’s perineum. Then he tightens his grip, and _presses._

_“AUGH!”_ John’s eyes fly open wide and Sherlock can _feel_ his cock pulse to full hardness inside his channel.

“Good?” Sherlock’s pretty certain he’s deduced this correctly, but he knows he needs to be sure.

“Oh, fuck, yeah, yeah, sweetheart, that’s really good, GOD!”

John’s done this to Sherlock a few times in the past-- used a vibrator to stimulate his prostate externally through his perineum. It was an incredible sensation, and he’s long suspected John would enjoy it. John was unable to maintain his erection during anal penetration, but it seems external stimulation was a different beast entirely.

Inside him, John’s prick grows impossibly harder, responding beautifully to the vibrations. Sherlock shifts to accommodate the more demanding penetration, then smiles up beatifically at John.

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready, John. Go ahead and fuck me.”

John stares down at him for a moment, sex-drunk and dazed. And then he _moves._

It’s not exactly easy, working out the right angle to keep the vibrator in place while John thrusts into him, but they find a balance merifully quickly. Sherlock devotes his undivided attention to pleasuring John’s prostate as thoroughly as he can, all while keeping his legs obligingly spread to allow John the deepest angle of penetration possible.

“OH! Oh fuck, sweetheart! Oh God, that’s good, that’s so, so good, nnnnnngh don’t stop!” John isn’t trusting particularly hard; it seems that the vibrations were all the stimulation he required.

Then the expression on John’s face shifts, and the next thing Sherlock knows, the hazy look is gone from John’s eyes, and he’s staring down at him with a poignant clarity that makes Sherlock want to go to pieces on the spot. “Sherlock… God, sweetheart, I’m yours. I’m yours, I’m yours, only every been yours, love… you’re the only man I’ve ever loved, the only person I want to be with, God, sweetheart, it’s you, it’s always you, only you, it’s only ever been you…”

It takes Sherlock completely by surprise. In all the times John’s dominated him, the dialogue had always been centred around John’s ownership of Sherlock; claiming him, marking him, making him _John’s._ And while he supposes he always understood, in a nebulous sense, that that was a two-way street, it’s shockingly poignant to hear John say it out loud.

Sherlock stares up at John and bares his neck. “John, yes, please… love you, want you, come in me, please… please, want your come…”

“OH! Oh, God…” John thrusts a bit harder, and Sherlock presses the vibrator firmly against him, eliciting a sharp grunt.

“John, please, you’re mine, mine, give it to me, please, need it, please, just a little more, put yourself inside me, come in me, please, please, John, _please--”_

Then John makes a sound somewhere between a cry and a groan. It’s a hoarse, bitten-off thing, and he freezes in place, buried balls-deep in Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock knows exactly what is happening. John is experiencing the strange sensation of when an orgasm originates internally from the prostate, instead of externally from the shaft. Sherlock has grown used to it by now, but for John, this would be his first time feeling it.

“It’s alright, John, it’s okay, it’s okay, just let it happen, come in me, come, it’s okay--”

John issues a tiny gasp, so brief it’s barely audible. And then Sherlock feels the familiar warm bloom of John’s release inside him.

“Oh, GOD, John! Thank you, thank you, thank you...” He arches his back and grinds down on John’s cock, clenching his channel and milking everything he can from the man shaking and awestruck above him.

It’s hard to tell when John stops coming, because he’s still frozen in place, his face a mask of bewildered ecstasy. Sherlock errs on the side of caution, pulling the vibrator away and tossing it aside as soon as John’s cock stops twitching. John remains motionless on top of him for a few moments more, gasping in air through his slack-jawed mouth.

Then he’s collapsing onto Sherlock, shaking and spent. But not before biting the base of this throat one final time.

They’re slow to get their bearings after that. Eventually, John pulls out and checks Sherlock over. Everything is in order, but then John insists on taking a few more pictures (seeing as how Sherlock had taken an additional two loads since the last photos were taken, and John declares the improvement is substantial), so Sherlock indulges him, spreading his legs as praise pours from John’s lips, punctuated only by the snaps of the shutter.

By the time John is pulling him up from the bed and into his strong arms, Sherlock’s brain has gone hazy all over again. He feels strange, unsettled, and utterly discombobulated. Walking is difficult, and he leans heavily on John, who presses encouraging kisses against his cheek and calls the streaks of come that trickle down his legs _beautiful_ and _amazing_ and _incredible._ All the leaking come makes Sherlock feel dirty, and he cries a little bit over it, but John just brushes the tears away and helps him into the shower and washes him down until he’s clean and fresh and new. The heady scent of sandalwood soap overtakes him, and he revels in euphoric bliss.

Then John runs a bath for him, to help his muscles relax. John tells him he’s been so very good all day that he deserves a nice reward, and Sherlock blearily agrees with him. John adds menthol soak to the bathwater and massages Sherlock’s back and arms, and the whole world goes all fuzzy and soft and warm, and Sherlock feels much, much better. Then John leans him back in the tub and tells him to rest while John gets the bed ready for them.

Sherlock floats and drifts, his skin tingling and his body pliant and spent. John talks to him the whole time he’s away in the bedroom while Sherlock is in the bath, and he makes Sherlock keep responding, which he begrudgingly does. Then Sherlock realises that John is probably making sure Sherlock doesn’t just disappear under the water and drown himself in a sea of dopamine, so he responds a bit more politely after that.

And then John comes back, and everything gets very blurry and dim, but there are towels and sheets and kisses and praise and then sleep and sleep and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done! *Dabs brow and cracks knuckles*


	10. Chapter 10

John’s eyes sparkle in the flickering light of the candle perched upon their table. He’s holding out an oyster, urging Sherlock to eat it, and Sherlock’s giggling over some dumb _mollusk_ pun John’s just made, and he realises with a start he’s so goddamn happy he feels giddy.

It’s not that he isn’t usually happy; it’s simply that he doesn’t _notice_ it-- which is saying something within itself. But here, tonight, in a moment like this one, it hits Sherlock like a tonne of bricks, staggering in the enormity of its implications. He, Sherlock Holmes-- addict, outcast, high-functioning sociopath-- is _happy._

How gloriously strange. How oddly pleasant. How beautifully unlikely.

Against all odds.

“Come on, don’t _clam_ up on me now, we can’t let it go to waste--”

Sherlock gives his eyes an exaggerated roll, pretending to be utterly put-upon. “Oh my GOD, John, your puns are terrible, it’s offensive, honestly...”

John gives him a faux-innocent shrug. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just flexing my comedic _mussels…”_

With a snort, Sherlock snatches the oyster from John’s outstretched fingers and downs it in one go. John gives him a flirtatious wink, and despite himself, Sherlock dissolves into yet another rather undignified fit of giggles.

As Sherlock struggles to calm himself (or at least make a concerted effort), John watches him, bemusedly sipping his wine before finally placing his glass back on the table. His expression goes suddenly serious, and Sherlock can feel his own tone shift in tandem.

“So.” John clears his throat and gives the candle a very thorough inspection. “Are you… are you feeling ready to talk about my birthday?”

Ah. This explains a lot.

When John had texted Sherlock from the surgery earlier that day to notify him that he’d made reservations for them at an unusually posh new restaurant across town, Sherlock had been a bit skeptical indeed. John wasn’t usually one to propose new culinary endeavors, particularly not on a random weeknight, and particularly not so far from the flat. Sherlock had acquiesced, more out of curiosity than anything else.

So he’d donned his best-fitting trousers and shined his shoes and styled his hair, then selected a shirt from his well-curated collection that he felt best suited the mysterious occasion. He’d settled on all-black: simple, classic, and the colour complimented the garish bruises that littered his neck and collarbone, ripe from their session three days before.

John knew that Sherlock loved showing off the bruises that resulted from their sessions. Not all of the bruises, of course: back when they were still engaging in bondage, Sherlock had been too self-conscious to show off any of the gorgeous geometric bruises that the Japanese-bondage tie-ups left on his arms and legs. But love bites he adored, and he’d always taken great pleasure in leaving an extra button or two on his shirt undone for the days immediately following their sessions, displaying the hickeys for anyone to see.

Well… not _anyone._ He kept his shirt buttoned up and his scarf on if he was going to the Yard, or the lab, or if he was planning to see Mycroft (not that Mycroft wasn’t aware of the types of things the two of them got up to, but Sherlock preferred to keep any signs of rough treatment clear of his obnoxiously judgemental, prudish glare, simply to save himself the aggravation).

But for walks about town or trips to the Tesco or a quick bite to eat at a local establishment, Sherlock liked showing off the evidence of their encounters, and John was extremely indulgent of him on that front.

So as he’d admired himself in the bedroom mirror, pressing against the blossoming contusions with a satisfied hiss, he’d assumed that John was taking him out to dinner in a far-flung part of town to… show him off a bit.

The idea was unobjectionable. He’d been eager to oblige.

But it seems that John had also selected the restaurant based on the extremely intimate seating arrangements, which allowed them to engage in private conversation without the risk of being overheard. It was, after all, three days post-session. John never let them go more than four without having a post-mortem. So it seems that was also on the agenda for tonight.

Sherlock realises he finds this unobjectionable, as well. He’s ready to talk about it with John.

He gives John a warm smile. “Yes. I’m ready.”

John reaches out, placing his hand face-up on the table. Sherlock’s a bit surprised; John didn’t usually like engaging in public displays of affection, but it seems tonight, he’s in an affectionate mood. Sherlock places his hand in John’s, and John gives it a light squeeze.

“So. Overall, how was the session for you?”

These conversations used to be difficult… _so_ damn difficult. But now, Sherlock notes, it feels as natural as breathing. John’s questions are well-rehearsed, earnest, and non-judgemental; Sherlock doesn’t feel apprehensive in the least.

“Overall, very good. I’d missed having extended sessions. A lot more than I realised, I think. I know it’s hard to have them, what with… with our schedules and all, but… I’m really glad we made the time. I… I think I needed it, I just didn’t know it.”

John nods reassuringly. “Me, too. I’m glad we waited while we… got ourselves sorted out a bit, but it just reminded me of how good it feels to… to, um, be with you like that. It was really, really good for me.”

Sherlock grins.

John shifts a bit, then takes a deliberate pause. Sherlock knows what comes next: he’ll start to break things down into finer points. Sherlock mentally prepares himself.

“Okay. So… my leaving the flat mid-session. Did you like it? Dislike it? Neutral?”

Sherlock doesn’t even have to pause to consider it. “Neutral. I still very much enjoy being ignored mid-session, but it seems your proximity doesn’t impact me much one way or the other. Just as long as you’re not paying attention to me, my response level is the same.”

John raises his eyebrows, but gives an approving nod. “Noted. For me, it was definitely arousing to be going about my daily life knowing that you were… in that state back at home, but I think… well, I think I’d have felt differently if we were doing anything more intense than what we were doing. If you’d have been tied up, or if you’d have been resisting me, or if you’d have been further out of it… I think during those times, I need to be close to you. Not just for your safety, but also to… to feel like I’m protecting you. I know you don’t actually need protection, but… it’s, um, it’s a Dominant headspace thing, I think. But… but for what we were doing, it was fine.”

Sherlock can feel the corners of his mouth quirk up. “Noted.”

John takes a quick sip of water. “Alright. So… now the big one.” He averts his eyes momentarily, but then seems to steel himself and meets Sherlock’s gaze once more. “Extreme overstimulation. That’s… that’s the name for what we did there near the end, when I kept touching you sexually past the point you could get turned on. What… what were your thoughts on that?”

And now it gets a bit more complicated. Sherlock sits back in his chair, reluctantly releasing John’s hand, and picks up the napkin in his lap. It feels grounding. He takes a deep breath, centring himself, and reminds himself that he can trust John. John wants to know the truth. He doesn’t need to hold back.

“It… it was a lot. It was really, really intense and… and as I think you noticed, it put me on sort of a strange, bipolar trajectory when it came time for recovery. My emotions were all over the place: one second I felt like the happiest entity in the universe, the next I was so miserable I wanted to disappear. Afterwards, I wanted you to keep having sex with me indefinitely, like I desperately required validation, but it also made me feel dirty and helpless and like I never wanted to be touched sexually again. It was so confusing, and the way I found myself reacting was completely unexpected.”

John raises an eyebrow. “How so?” 

Sherlock pauses before continuing. “I… I mean, that last go-round I all but flat-out tried to… tried to ‘top from the bottom’ or whatever it’s called, and that felt really good but also made me feel really insecure and… and I cried a lot, and I don’t mind crying… but I feel like maybe it was too much for me, and maybe you felt the same way, too?” The words come out in a jumbled rush, and he finds his hands are trembling where he’s gripping the napkin resolutely in his lap.

John gives him a wane smile. “It was a lot for me, too, Sherlock. I wanted to try it because I’d read on the message boards that it was a really intense bonding experience for some couples, and considering we’ve cut so much of the extreme stuff out of our repertoire, I wanted to experiment with it to see if we could reach a similar high without crossing any of our new boundaries.” Sherlock nods understandingly; John’s reasoning made sense.

“But… it was a pretty rocky experience for me emotionally, too. I… I know that overstimulation is different from pain, but what we did really seemed to blur the boundaries there, and it scared me a little. Not at the time, but afterwards.”

Sherlock meets his eyes. “It scared me, too.” His voice is low and measured, but John just smiles in response.

John presses his lips together before mustering up the wherewithal to continue. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I also… I like it when… I like it when…”

“You like it when I cry.” Sherlock tries his best to keep his tone light, unaccusatory.

John gives him a reluctant nod. “Yes. God help me, I do.”

“That’s okay, John. That’s always been okay. I’ve told you that before. I like crying for you. You don’t have to be ashamed.”

John swallows thickly. “I know. Objectively, I know. But emotionally… in the heat of the moment, I loved everything that was happening. You surrendering like that… it was fucking amazing, Sherlock. What you… what you let me do to you was… it was really special. It was a perfect birthday present. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it.”

Sherlock gives him a lopsided smile. “I know that, John. But liking something in the moment doesn’t mean you like it full-stop. I’ve learned that myself on a few different occasions.”

John nods. “Exactly. Afterwards, I think I was emotionally ready to move on to some intense aftercare, but you needed more sexually to feel reassured, and we were just… on different pages. And I want to be clear, I didn’t mind what happened during that last round; if you want to top from the bottom sometimes when we’re Unwinding, we can--”

“I don’t.” Sherlock’s tone is firm, and John’s eyebrows shoot up at his rapid response. Sherlock holds steady; he knows exactly what ‘topping from the bottom’ is (John had used the phrase to explain what it’s called when John orders Sherlock to fuck him while they’re having a power exchange), and Sherlock knows he doesn’t want to top from the bottom himself. Even the extremely mild form of it he’d employed during John’s birthday session had made him feel distinctly unsettled in the aftermath.

“You sure?” John seems politely skeptical.

“Yes. Again, it all felt good at the time, and I’m not upset about any of it, but I don’t ever want to usurp your authority when we’re Unwinding. I need that to be a hard limit for me from now on. If I ever… if I ever do anything like that again, I’d like it if you either threatened me or stopped the session as punishment.”

John blinks at him, clearly a bit surprised. “Wow. Okay, that’s duly noted. I’ll make sure to be firm with you on that front from now on.”

“Thank you.”

John shifts in his chair. “So, overall… I don’t think extreme overstimulation is a good fit for me. Do you feel the same?”

“Yes. It was a fascinating experience, and one I’m glad I was able to give you. But I don’t need to repeat it. That said… um…”

John gives him a reassuring nod.

“I do want to keep engaging in regular overstimulation. You know, forced orgasms, nipple play… that sort of thing?”

John grins enthusiastically. “Basically anything sexual, so long as you can still get aroused from it.”

“Precisely.”

“I’d be happy to oblige.”

They share a quiet moment of shared fondness. Finally, John continues. “Alright, your turn: is there anything else you’d like to change? Add? Abstain from?”

Sherlock bites his lip, grounding himself. Then he takes a deep breath.

Just then, the waiter arrives, and leans over to fill their water glasses.

Sherlock recalls Rule #3 from his List of Rules For Dining In Public With John: Do not mention explicit sexual activities in the presence of the wait staff. Begrudgingly, he resigns himself to pausing.

After a seeming eternity, the waiter bustles off, and Sherlock continues.

“We… we need to talk about edging and bondage.”

Sherlock can see John tense infinitesimally, despite his best efforts to conceal it. “Alright.”

“I know we took those off the table when we did a hard reset on everything. But John, I think… I think we’re ready. I think they’re very important to us, to… to what it is that we do. We’ve been doing alright without them, but I think our problems with extreme overstimulation are just further evidence that we need to quit avoiding the tools that we know work for us, to give us what we both need.”

John blinks down at the table. He doesn’t respond.

Sherlock swallows hard. “The… the edging. I was the one who requested we put a stop to that. But during your birthday session, I basically spent the day _edging myself._ I didn’t want to come without you, and it got me incredibly turned on to wait for you and seek your permission. I thrive on that dynamic, and I want it back.”

When John speaks, his voice sounds unsteady. “But… but that night we lost control… I edged you too far. I hurt you. I made you suffer more than you wanted to.”

Sherlock immediately knows what he’s referring to: that dark night, months ago, when John was in a depressive state, Sherlock had proposed a session, and things had gotten out of hand. They hadn’t used proper safety protocols, and the session had ended abruptly when John had a full-blown panic attack and wound up vomiting and shivering in the bathroom while Sherlock blearily attempted to shake himself out of his submissive stupor and help. It had been… not their finest moment.

Sherlock squares his shoulders, taking ownership of his part of the blame in that mess. “And I let you. We know we made mistakes, John, both that night and in the time leading up to it. But we’ve learned from it. I’m ready to accept responsibility, aren’t you?”

John takes a deep breath, and then finally gives a slow nod. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Alright. So I’d like to be edged during our next session.”

John finally meets his eyes. “Okay.” He doesn’t sound confident, not quite yet… but he doesn’t sound reluctant, either. 

Sherlock decides to take it as a win. He braces himself to soldier on.

“Which brings us to the bondage.”

John shakes his head. “We can’t, Sherlock. It’s too risky.”

“No, John, it’s really not. We’re good at it! We are _so damn good at it!”_ He does his best to keep his tone calm and affirming, but he hates it when John acts like a martyr like this.

John gives him a wary glare. “It’s too much. It’s too much when I have to force you.”

And there, that’s the gory heart of it, right there. Sherlock knows now his is moment to speak, to tell his truth. It’s now or never.

He clenches his jaw, straightens his spine, and speaks. “I need you to force me.”

John shakes his head, his eyes glistening with tears in the flickering candlelight as he blinks them shut.

“John, look at me, please.” 

John reluctantly acquiesces.

Sherlock reaches out and places his hand face-up on the table.

There’s an infinite pause.

Then John reaches out and places his hand in Sherlock’s own. Sherlock gives it a squeeze.

“Do you remember, a long time ago when we were first learning to negotiate, and we were discussing what we liked about Unwinding?”

John just gives a neutral shrug.

“You said it turned you on when I struggled, but it turned you on even more to see me submit. Do you remember saying that?”

“Yes.” John’s tone is indecipherable.

Sherlock looks him straight in the eye. “John, for me, it’s always been the opposite. It turns me on to submit to you. But it turns me on even more to struggle and have you force me down. I didn’t realise… I didn’t realise how important the struggle was to me, until we dialed everything back and started from scratch. But I’m starting to understand it now: my pleasure from Unwinding comes in two parts, the struggle and the submission. And right now, we’re only engaging in one.”

John doesn’t hesitate. “But that’s keeping things safe.”

“Things can be safe with the struggle, too, John. You know that, and so do I. We messed up before, we got off track, but that was a result of external emotional circumstances that we’ve since addressed. But you cannot look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel like something’s missing. Something _is_ missing, John, and you’re searching for it too. That’s why you wanted to try _extreme overstimulation;_ you’re looking for something to fulfill that need, to give you that rush you only get when you take me down. I want that rush, too, John. We’re the same, you and me, a matched set, two parts of a whole. You know it as well as I do. Don’t pretend that you don’t want this just as badly as I do.” By the time he finishes, he’s breathing hard, so eager to make John _understand,_ to make him _see..._

There’s a pause that seems to last a lifetime.

Finally, John speaks.

“You’re right.”

Sherlock’s completely taken aback; he’d thought John would argue, drag his feet, beat around the bush, or tell Sherlock that he needed to spend several weeks mulling over the repercussions with his therapist. But instead, he’s _agreed._ Sherlock is beyond shocked.

“I… I am?”

John quirks a smile at him. “Well… yeah. I… Christ, you’re totally, completely right. I’ve been agonising over the way I’d been feeling about our sessions lately, like something wasn’t quite working, like something was missing, but I didn’t want to admit to myself what it was. And now… now I see it. And… you’re right.”

Sherlock blinks at him, gobsmacked. “... Really?”

John rolls his eyes in feigned exasperation. “Stop acting so shocked, I thought you were supposed to be a goddamn detective or something. You shouldn’t look surprised when you make an accurate deduction, it’s bloody unprofessional.”

Sherlock violates Rule #6 on his List of Rules For Dining in Public With John and throws his napkin squarely at his face. John just catches it with his insufferable rugby reflexes and laughs.

Sherlock feels something unlock inside his chest, as though a dam has broken deep within him, relief rushing through his veins. He’d been so afraid that he’d been asking too much, so afraid of pushing John too far, of scaring him off, but this is just another reminder that he needn’t be. John is in this _with_ him, as deep as he wants to go, and all John asks in return is his honesty. It’s a freedom humbling in its capacity, and Sherlock lets the sensation wash over him in reassuring waves.

They share a dessert and a pot of decaf coffee before John looks at his watch and lets out a low whistle. “Yikes, we’d best get home or Mrs. H will have our heads. ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ is on in a half hour, and you know she says she can’t watch without an herbal soother and a proper g&t in hand.”

They’re just making their way towards the lobby of the restaurant when they find themselves engulfed in a group of chattering professionals descending on the place. Sherlock makes a series of snappy deductions: middle-aged, white-collar, all out-of-towners, in London for a conference (something medical: medical device symposium, or perhaps pharmaceuticals?), out for a pre-arranged dinner that none of them particularly want to be at. How terribly _tedious._

He’s just about to start throwing elbows to get past them when he hears a voice ring out. “Oy! John! Sherlock!”

He whirls around to see a beleaguered-looking Moira beaming back at them. She’s standing awkwardly (she made the mistake of wearing heels to the conference, not realising they were intending to make the attendees walk the 8 blocks to dinner) but waving enthusiastically, and Sherlock is mildly irritated to see a smile blossom across John’s face.

“Mo! What are you doing here?”

She nods her head vaguely towards the group. “Celebratory dinner for the last day of the conference. I’m headed home tomorrow.”

John makes a vague noise of feigned interest. Sherlock narrows his eyes; despite John’s outward appearance, Sherlock detects that he is not, in fact, at _all_ surprised to see Moira. Something was clearly afoot.

“So! How was your birthday?”

John grins. “It was perfect Just… spent some time at home. And Sherlock gave me the loveliest birthday treat: he baked a Victoria Sponge.”

Moira’s eyes flit over to Sherlock, then immediately widen, her eyebrows rising up so high it’s nearly comical. “Goodness. It… looks like it must have been delicious, indeed.”

Her voice is laced with poorly-disguised innuendo. It takes Sherlock a split second to remember: _the love bites._ He’s got his collar unbuttoned and the evidence of John’s ministrations on full display. 

Despite himself, he can feel the color bloom across his cheeks.

John grins. “Yes. He can offer up quite the feast, when he puts his mind to it.”

Moira laughs, her eyes twinking with amusement. “Alright, I’d best be off. Wouldn’t want to keep you boys from getting home to your _dessert.”_ And with a wink and a grin, she’s gone.

John turns to take Sherlock’s hand. “Come on, let’s get a taxi.”

Sherlock is still frozen in place, the gears turning in his head. “You… you knew she’d be here tonight.”

John gives him his most innocent expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, love. Those oysters must have turned your brain to pearls. Now let’s go, we mustn’t be _shellfish_ and dally any longer…”

With a resigned groan, Sherlock lets John lead him out into the waiting night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TA-DA! Thanks for sticking with me through this long haul. As always, leave suggestions and prompts! I have a few more installments in the works, but I'm always looking for new inspiration!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments. Leave questions. Leave ramblings. I love it all.


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